


Sublimation

by sleeplessandcynical



Category: Professional Wrestling, WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Author has a warped definition of romance, BDSM, Collars, Dominance, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Marks, Moar doorway-sized submissive dudes, POV Third Person, Possessiveness, Praise Kink, Rope Bondage, Sex, Submission, The 'S' in s+m stands for 'sappy' right?, Whipping, bonus Chris Jericho, bonus Dean Ambrose, bonus Sami Zayn, bonus sassing of Braun Strowman, high protocol, kink as therapy, not a one shot anymore jk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-10-11 16:26:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10469295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessandcynical/pseuds/sleeplessandcynical
Summary: So @hardcorewwetrash on Tumblr had a request for a submissive!Roman fic that I offered to fill because I've been dying to do one of these for ages. And then it kinda exploded.It's a little different for me – I wanted to do something that was suuuuuper tender and romantic but also overtly kinky? I hope y'all like it! It is, as with literally everything I do, far too long and complicated, with the bonus of having been written on a shitton of Nyquil. Nod to my favorite “romance that isn't a romance” of all time, Laura Antoniou's The Slave."Sublimination, she wrote one day, in a rush of frustration,is as exhausting as pursuit."A quick note on structure: basically every chapter of this thing is its own short story to some degree, so it may not ever be "finished" in that I'm just gonna keep adding stories whenever I come up with things to write about! But there's no cliffhangers or anything between chapters, really, so if you pop into this and see that it's still listed as unfinished, is not like I'm going to leave you hanging, I promise





	1. working my way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Soundtrack: The Muckrakers – Front of the Parade – “Working My Way”](https://youtu.be/5ugdhQAhDBU)

_i guess you should know_  
_i think i'm losing sleep_  
_i know everywhere i go_  
_i hear you call my name_

 _she said i'll be working my way_  
_working my way home_  
_i'm working my way back to you_

She was always gentle, until she wasn't.  
  
The kind of woman who always carried a knife but he'd only ever seen her use it once, to untangle a turtle from a grocery bag on the side of the road after she saw it and made him turn the car around. The kind of woman who did metta meditation every morning but got thrown out of a punk bar for breaking a guy’s nose after he harassed her one time too many.

Her eyes, her voice, her posture, the mere fact of her existence rolled over Roman and crashed in a way that said, “You think you feel things _now_ , just wait until you get up tomorrow.” Like being punched in the kidneys. It was unlike him to feel this urgency, this absolute compulsion to act, but every nerve ending screamed at him to turn back around and _keep talking_.

Roman knew she had this side to her. She had told him as much that day, the first time he asked her out.

He also knew he didn’t want it.

Well. “Knew.”

He'd asked again, after all. She’d looked him over in a way that was _gorgeously_ menacing _,_ and Roman felt a strange, foreign thrill that paid equal reverence to fear and excitement.

The first time she took him into her bed, she lay quietly by his side and didn’t even take his pants off as she explored him into an absolute frenzy. Walking her fingertips over every sensitive spot escalated to percussing across his skin, intensified to slight and unpredictable pinches and accelerating slaps as she layered little nips and longer and meaner bites all over his chest and neck. Everything she did was precise, deliberate, and calculated; her part of an endless cycle of call-and-response. If he thought about it, he could tell when she used different parts of her hands and mouth to strike, making certain marks sting and others resonate through his body, but thinking was very, very low on Roman’s list of priorities.

 _Hurt_ was probably the verb, but _pain_ was definitely not the noun.

When she raked her teeth over his vulnerable ribcage, he writhed away from the overstimulation, arching his back high up off the mattress, and she let him go with her hands raised.

"Yes or no?” she asked with that sweet, soft drawl, stroking tendrils of hair away from his damp forehead, and Roman didn't know the answer until he opened his mouth and what spilled out was, "Please don't stop. Please don't ever stop."

At that, her purr became a snarl, and she growled a safeword in his ear before throwing herself brazenly on top of him, elbows and forearms pinning him to the bed in a way that would leave symmetrical striped bruises angled across his biceps as he flung his head back and showed her his throat. She was very strong, and suddenly he was very small, and that was the precise moment in his mind where she became She and he became Hers.

Once the door came crashing open, it was a matter of a long series of moments over a long series of months and years. When the world tore him apart, She put him back together. When he felt tiny and weak, She roared up ten feet tall and bulletproof. He held things out to Her, and She took them from him, sometimes gently and sometimes not.

* * *

Tonight, though, it wasn’t about what She took; it was about what She gave. Specifically, the black velvet box he found in his locker after his post-match shower.

_How does She do that?_

He pulled the one set of dress clothes out of its garment bag, and tied his damp hair into a neat bun just above the nape of his neck. A few moments later, he stood in front of the mirror, checking and re-checking for any spots of lint or stray hairs.

_Be perfect for Her. She doesn’t demand it, but She deserves it._

Fitted black shirt, in a slightly heavier twill than he would have normally chosen for himself, buttoned to the neck. She liked buttons. Well, mostly she liked undoing them. Flat-front charcoal trousers; impeccably creased, of course. Plain black dress socks. The only distinctive items in this wardrobe were his shoes – black brogue Oxfords with detailed wingtips, polished within an inch of their lives. She liked shoes almost as much as buttons.

The one thing She disliked was when he wore underwear. _We can definitely agree on that_ , he thought, closing his eyes for a moment to savor the soft fabric against the weight of his cock and the muscle of his thighs.

* * *

“Sharp as fuck, Reigns!” The familiar rasp and a slap on the back shattered his reverie, and he looked up.

"Thanks, Uce.” He favored Ambrose with a small smile.

"Guessing you’re not coming out with us tonight, by the looks of it.” His old friend flashed dimples and a sly grin. “Goin’ home to the old lady?”

“You better _believe_ it.” Roman couldn’t hide the way his smile doubled at the prospect.

“Fuck, I’d be pissed if you weren’t. How often are we in this neck of the woods?”

“Not enough.” He shook his head. “Not enough.”

At that, Ambrose laughed. “Well, tell her I said hey. Anybody that still makes you wanna look this good after all this time is a real queen.”

Roman looked down at the box in his hands, and ran his thumbs over the velvet. “You have _no_ idea, my man.”

* * *

She met him at the door as he got out of the cab, and he immediately took the duffel without being asked, tucking the box into a side pocket. There was a familiar weight shift that occurred when he hefted the canvas, a hint that might betray its contents, and his belly stirred as She crooked a finger and he bent to receive a kiss on his bearded cheek.

“Thank you, Sir,” he murmured. At first, he had used more traditional titles – Ma’am, Mistress – but She told him once in passing that She liked the way he said “Yes, Sir,” and that had instantly became the new default. It felt right.

She was dressed a step above him, appropriately: bespoke in heavenly fabric, polished lace-up boots and leather gloves. She’d never cared for the traditional black and it worked perfectly for Her; the merlot of Her two-button suit set off Her brown skin - just slightly darker than his own - and shock of pinned-up curls in a way that turned heads. And, given Her choice of footwear, She must have taken the train, meaning many, many heads were turned on Her way here. She liked to walk everywhere She could, but unlike Roman, She could somehow do it without fuzzing Her hair or wrinkling Her clothes with sweat. He was half-convinced it was some sort of magic trick.

Roman knew that She liked the parties sometimes. It created an almost meditative headspace: knowing they were going to be among others who would understand, going through the preparatory rituals of laying out and packing and dressing up. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and followed Her into the warehouse, always a step behind. 

The familiar woman with the orange wristband greeted Her with a long hug and kiss, and gently patted his shoulder before opening the door for them. They were struck by warmth and chatter and music and soft, flickering lights on almost every surface, punctuated by regular, cadenced thuds and groans.

He followed Her to an open spot, a niche between equipment, and She removed Her coat and began rolling up Her sleeves. At Her gesture, he gently set the bag down and dropped to his knees, clasping his forearms behind his back. Even there, he's still almost Her height, but he knew better than to laugh and he didn’t want to, anyway. She traced fingers along his hairline for a moment, and he leaned his face into Her hand before She tilted his chin into a deep, gentle kiss that, after all this time away, left him breathless and wanting.

She opened the velvet box to reveal his only accessory for the evening: a wide, stainless-steel collar whose bright, flawless surface danced as it reflected the room’s many light sources. She wasn’t normally one for flash; his “home” collar was little more than a well-worn leather strap She had tooled in Her workshop, secured with a padlock from the hardware store. But he knew, in a way that thrilled him to the depths of his heart and his cock, that She chose this piece precisely for its show. It was a big, shiny demonstration of ownership; an assurance that he was someone’s property. _Her_ property.

She kissed him again, nimble fingers outlining his cheekbones and jaw before reaching for the top two buttons on his shirt and popping them open, Her eyes still closed. When they parted, Roman drew a deep breath, locking eyes as She draped the hinged steel around his neck, inside his opened shirt collar, and reached to Her pocket for the special key.

Two twists and it was done, and so was he, dropping his hands to his thighs and his gaze to the ground in one smooth, well-practiced motion, continuing to breathe, continuing to focus. It was very hard. _He_ was very hard. She was standing over him, Her eyes hooded and full of fierce love, and if that wasn’t enough, the mere act of putting him in his rightful place made Her so wet he could smell it through all Her layers of clothes.

_Please. Please, Sir._

Another small motion from Her hand and he rose. “Stay put,” she murmured, heading around the corner to the restroom. She stopped to chat with some friends along the way, Her eyes occasionally grazing over his body as he stood at quiet, relaxed attention, awaiting Her return.

A man and a woman he didn't know approached him. Their questions were probing, invasive, and the woman kept trying to trail her fingers down his arm, or chest, or neck. Roman acknowledged them as politely as he could, trying hard not to flinch, but these sorts of parties meant Very Formal Rules for him, and _that_ meant, barring an emergency, he did not speak unless She gave him permission. Which was fine with him; he wasn't much of a talker in the first place, and in this instance, it seemed to be the only escape.

He didn't like the look in the man's eyes, all haughty and aggressive, so he lowered his own to the floor. This was what She had taught him – do his best, and if truly, genuinely unsure, stand still and wait for Her to return. “Stay put,” she had said. _Like a Boy Scout lost in the woods_ , he thought. _Don’t panic. Wait to be found._

But then the man touched him. Grabbed his jaw hard enough to make Roman's eyes water. The man’s other hand gripped his shoulder and pushed down, threaded fingers through his _collar_ and pulled, hard, a clear attempt to bring him to his knees that was stopped only by Roman's sheer size advantage. Through the fog of stinging pain, he thought, _I could break the rules. I could hurt him. I could make him stop. I think She would forgive me._

But then he didn't need to, because there was a sudden emptiness of space in front. The man had staggered backwards, clutching his own jaw this time, and there She was, angled to his side, fist still clenched in preparation for another swing, her eyes wide with fury. Even through the fear, Roman’s mouth twitched, as did his cock.

She was always gentle, until She wasn’t, and She had a _mean_ right hook.

"Get your filthy fucking hands off him. He is _mine_." The last word was snarled with such possessiveness and venom that Roman's eyes almost rolled back in his head. Safety. Belonging. _Her_.

Another man, one with an orange wristband, grabbed the stranger by his shirt and marched him away. She took Roman into a dark, quiet corner and ran Her hands over every trembling inch of him, even softer than usual.

"Speak freely if you need to,” She said, quietly, but for a long time, he did not.

* * *

Finally, he broke the silence, hoarse and frightened. "I'm sorry, Sir. I should have stopped him. I know you must be disappointed."

She straightened up tall, and gestured towards the ground. Habit, formed by seemingly hundreds of repetitions over the years, took over and he once again sank to his knees, placed his hands on his thighs, straightened his spine, and lowered his gaze.

But to his surprise, She also dropped to the floor, pressing their foreheads together and carefully placing Her hands over his. This degree of intimacy in a public venue was both confusing and joyous, like being knocked off his feet by a warm wave on a beach someplace far away from here.

"That was _not_ your fault. That was his, for being a handsy, entitled prick. You did exactly as you had been told, and I should have been there to protect you much sooner." Her voice became thick, and Her accent started to creep out around the edges. “You are my responsibility, Roman, and I am deeply sorry to have let you down.” She kissed his forehead, a benediction that trickled through his entire body. “Do you want to go home?”

Home _. Home is wherever You are,_ he thought. Then he thought about the bag, and what was in it, and gave his head a small shake. "We don't have a St. Andrew's at home," he rumbled, and that made Her laugh, a sound that caught his breath in his throat even through the lingering fog of nerves. 

"Tell me what you need," She drawled. He loved the way She gave a quiet order instead of asking a question.

He let out a deep breath. "He touched my _collar_ , Sir. It made me... I want to feel right again."

"You need me to take it back." It was another question, and he told Her _yessir_ with his eyes, over and over, until She stood up and beckoned him to follow.

When She reached into the bag and pulled out the carefully coiled, handmade singletail he had suspected, hoped, and prayed was in there all along, his knees weakened. When she reached in again and pulled out several short lengths of hemp rope, he realized he was holding his breath. She stacked everything neatly on the ground next to the bolted-down X, and he took Her quiet cue and positioned himself to face the wall.

Her soft, strong hands wrapped around his torso, and as She methodically pulled out his shirttails, he realized from the murmur in the room that a small crowd was gathering.

"Do you feel that, boy? Everyone is dying to see what I have to unwrap." She spoke into the breadth of his back, a little louder than necessary, playing to the unseen audience. 

"Yessir." Her fingers dragged up the front of his shirt, methodically unfastening each button. She could have ordered him to do this himself, but he knew that the texture and heft of the fabric and the gradual exposure of his vulnerability turned Her on immensely, made Her even more possessive and focused.

When She finally pulled the shirt off his shoulders and set it aside, the crowd went silent and Roman felt his stomach clench. He squeezed his eyes shut, and a long moment dragged on before Her voice brought him back. This was quiet, just for him, reverberating through his very skin. "All they can do is look at you, because you're so beautiful. So _mine_. Turn around."

Roman did as he was told, and She savored the opportunity to press Her body to his chest and kiss him again. True to Her word, much of the attention was on them, and it was rapt, tinged with genuine curiosity and perhaps a little politely-concealed lust. They looked at him like that, and that handful of faces made him tremble harder than a crowd of twenty thousand when he felt so small.

He glanced briefly over kind faces before aiming his gaze back to the floor, and within minutes She had rigged up a set of multilayered cat's-paw cuffs that distributed pressure fairly across his forearms, wrists, and hands alike. He knew exactly what that meant, and turned to reposition himself on the cross, stretching high to help Her rig the ends through the attachment points.

She ran Her hands up his back, and raked Her short nails down, making him gasp. Then She repeated the gesture using the coiled edge of the whip before pressing Her mouth to his spine. "How long have I loved you?" She asked, and the ferocity in Her tone made him jump just the tiniest bit.

Roman steeled himself for the punishment of a wrong answer. "I don't know, Sir."

A beat. "How long since the first time I saw you?"

This he knew immediately. "Three years, seven months, and five days. Sir."

She threw her head back and laughed, big and joyous, and asked again, "How long have I loved you?"

Understanding crashed over him like shattered glass, stinging every inch of his skin, waking him up more than any implement. "Three years, seven months, and five days, Sir."

She pressed a kiss to his spine. "Let's round that to months. Forty-three." Then She stepped back, and he heard the singletail start to move, and Roman lost the breath from his lungs at the first line of fire across his upper back.

Roman always thought he would hate the whip, because it meant being away from Her. It mean being hurt alone, without the context of Her hands or body keeping his edges warm, spilling Her love into him while he struggled.

But he had soon learned that the whip was not so much an entity as an extension, no different from Her arms and hands, a new way to snap Her feelings into his body with a purifying sear. With each strike, he felt Her energy being pushed into him, knocking out everything else. It was the same way he tried to direct his love into Her with every stroke of his hands or tongue or cock, praying that She could feel it the way he could and knowing on some cosmic level that it was right.

Every ten stripes, She paused to kiss his wounds and ask an unspoken question, and he told Her yes over and over. Every ten stripes, he allowed himself a brief moment of thought, and every ten stripes, those thoughts became clearer, cleaner, no longer tinged with the worry of the outside world. She did that to him. She gave him that permission.

At forty, She took the nape of his neck in Her hand, and he followed the turn of Her fingers like a leash. She kissed him, and the air around them crackled with Her want and need. She kissed him again, and her fingers trailed down his ribcage and hooked in the waistband of his trousers. This was not a command, he knew, but a momentary crack in the wall that allowed Her desire to shine through. Roman offered a few low words, and She responded with a handful of Her own before stepping back. He slumped against the smooth wooden frame, fingers tangling with the ropes that held him there.

_From zero to one to forty-three to forever._

* * *

Roman didn't remember being let down from the cross. He only knew laying on the ground in a puddle of ropes. His head was in Her lap, Her arousal wafting over him like heaven, and She was running those precious fingers across his face and hair and body, tucking him close. Without thinking, he caught one of Her hands in his and pressed the palm to his lips. She smiled, and it was _radiant_. When he finally got his head together, he rolled out of Her lap and knelt in front of her. She kissed him one last time before standing.

"Go back to the house. Wait for me.”

 _Wait for me._ Roman knew what that meant, as he redressed and gathered their things. The house was much, much less formal than the outside world, but it was still Her time tonight.

* * *

He unlocked the front door, and went straight to their bedroom. Her bedroom. He stripped quickly but neatly, letting his hair go loose and wild, putting everything away where it belonged. When he took his shirt off, he felt it stick to a few of the marks, so he set it aside to be cleaned, and permitted himself one brief glance at his back in the full-length mirror. She was precise in all things, and as he had already known before he even looked, every single cut and welt fell neatly across his upper back and shoulders, and down either side of his spine. Each and every mark was well within the lines of what his ring vest would cover. Except for one set, the one he had asked for: a perfect, bruising X over the far part of his left shoulder.

He considered taking a shower, but he also knew She loved him sweaty, and he didn't want to take the risk of not being ready when She came home. Instead, he went back to the front door, unrolled the clean mat She kept there for him, and got on his knees again, this time naked in the middle of their foyer. Now he could take the time to settle into the perfect spot, trying to visualize from the outside whether everything was symmetrical and just right. Now he could wait for Her.

Waiting was hard. It was like being drugged – seconds dragging on into minutes that seemed to take days, worsened by not knowing when She might return. He considered getting up until he heard footsteps, a car out front or Her key in the lock, but it wasn't right. She had told him to wait.

 _Patience,_ Roman thought _. I will be patient. I **am** patience._

* * *

Finally, he heard her big keyring jingle and the deadbolt click, and he determinedly breathed through it, staying carefully still. 

"Get up," She ordered, keeping Her voice and eyes soft. She took his hands, and only then, in the brighter light of their home, did he see the layered bruises on the brown skin of Her knuckles. "No one will ever touch you like that again. I will _not_ allow it."

His heart threatened to burst through his chest, and without thinking, he hugged Her so hard he heard Her back pop as he lifted Her off the ground. She laughed, and demanded that he put Her down, which he did. Eventually.

“Defiant little thing, aren't you?” She asked, favoring him with that crooked smile as She dragged a fingertip over his bare torso.

“Yessir.” That was the right answer, even if it wasn't completely accurate. It was the right answer because She slapped him, and he felt his blood begin to move a little faster. His dark eyes closed just the tiniest bit, and She slapped him again, this time pulling a groan from the depths of his chest and an even faster stirring everywhere else. At that, She reached back into his hair, raking fingers down his scalp and taking a deep handful and bringing him almost to his knees again as She turned and all but dragged him into the bedroom.

“You, my love, are a sweet, patient, obedient little thing, but I am none of those, and I have waited long enough.”

She was always gentle, until She wasn't, and now She tore into him like a sacrifice. Tonight was a rare night, one where She would not be teasing, making him ache more and more, whispering filth, gradually increasing in volume for every definition of the term. Tonight was something else.

He didn't know how it was possible for one woman to simultaneously hold him in place, shuck Her own clothes, and kiss him in a frenzy of lips, teeth and tongue, but somehow She did, and every touch was a testament to Her want.

Roman found himself utterly helpless, rolling his unseeing eyes from one corner of the ceiling to the other, completely undone by the press of Her skin against his naked body. He didn't know how it was possible to be so boneless and placid and yet somehow wound tight enough to snap. He only knew that he was where he belonged.

She shoved him onto the bed, and he went willingly until the raw, abraided skin of his back hit the blankets and he let out an involuntary hiss of pain. She cursed under Her breath, and rolled him into his side, peppering his face with little kisses and nips.

“It's my own fault I can't have you quite the way I want, but that doesn’t get you off the hook,” she murmured into his mouth.

The only words he was capable of forming were “Yes, Sir.”

She dragged him between Her legs, fingers wrapped through his collar, and he groaned against her lips. She drove that point home by reaching down and sinking his cock inside Her with a loud exhale, hooking Her legs around his hips, their bodies such a mess of sweat and fluids that it seemed the most natural conclusion of things in the entire universe. She paused for a moment, eyelids fluttering.

“Oh fuck, you feel so good, my sweet boy. I've been so empty without you.”

 _Because I belong here. I belong to You. I was created and born and grown just for You. For You._ He thought it every time She fucked Her hips up to him and he pushed back, slow and deep even amidst the frenetic pace they had set for everything else, because he knew that was how She needed it. Slow. Deep. Inexorable. Every fucking inch of them rising to meet.

He felt their skin electric together, and when it was almost too much to take, he bucked up off the bed only to be stopped cold by the pin of Her grip – one hand on the back of his neck, pressing his collar hard against his skin, and the other hooked under his shoulder, hanging on so tightly that She lifted Her own upper body off the bed.

"You are not going anywhere,” She whispered hoarsely, and he shivered with relief. “You are _mine_.”

In response, he thrust into Her even harder than before, and it seemed like the slower and heavier his pace, the closer She crept to the edge. She ground on him so hard he thought his hips would bruise, and when he tried to pull back again, he found that She was now quite content to not move at all, no matter how much he whimpered or tried to ply her with his big eyes.

In another world, if She were anyone else, he would have taken it. Snatched her ass up off the bed and pounded her until he saw stars behind his eyes. But the thought never occurred to him, not for even a second, as he carefully cradled Her, because this was the world he belonged in. He belonged in this one, where Her hips wove figure-8s underneath him and every nerve ending sang for joy as he ground back, so grateful to have divested himself of the idea that being the one doing the fucking meant that he was in charge.

She dug Her teeth into his chest and snarled, “Don't you dare stop. Don't you _dare_ stop,” as though anything in the world except Her or the goddamn apocalypse could have caused that to happen. _And fuck the apocalypse,_ he thought. _But not until I'm done fucking Her._

She arched Her back until he was almost out of Her, and at that, he ducked his head to taste Her closeness. He desperately ran his lips and tongue over every available inch of skin, reaching down to gather Her wetness on the fingertips of one hand and making a positively embarrassing noise of need when he finally got those fingers into his mouth. 

She slammed him home so hard he couldn't help but cry out, nearly doubling up. Her pace picked up to match the pounding of their hearts, and he knew She was toeing the line when She dropped his shoulder, leveraging the headboard in one hand and his collar on the other to bring him down with even more force. _She might break me in half._ _And there's no way I'd rather go._

But instead of taking Her own, She demanded his, that bruising grip on his collar dragging him into a white-knuckled kiss, pushing them over the edge together with Her slurred, run-on demands.

_you know i can't come without you, boy. you need to give me everything, every last inch of skin, every drop of sweat, every bit of your come, it all belongs to me now and you'd better. give. it. up._

He didn't even know any longer what was buildup and what was coming and what was aftershocks and what was coming again; his entire existence was reaching out to Her, into Her, mingling his body and power with Hers to create something bigger than them both. It was like She reached out and pulled him into Her without lifting a finger, and that helplessness was the sensation he lived for through the darkest of days and nights. 

They laid there for a long time until She began to shiver, and he eased his way out to clean them up and tuck Her underneath the bedclothes. He took the time for a quick check of the house, turning off lights and putting strewn clothes away before sliding under the sheets himself, already aching for Her touch again.

“Missed you so much,” She growled quietly, and his whole body trembled with joy.

“I could tell,” he grinned, and She gently slapped him on the chest. “Thank you, Sir. I love You.”

“Love you too,” she mumbled.

He slept nestled in Her arms, curled to Her side, hair strewn in a curtain across Her torso.

It wasn't that She fulfilled a part of him that he'd been searching for. It was that, until he met Her, he had no idea how empty he'd been.

Running on fumes.

Running from something.

And now no more running, at least for tonight.

 _and i, i hope you welcome me_  
_cause i been waiting_  
_for your arms to hold me in_  
_cause we, we been down this road_  
_so many times we know it by heart_

 _she said i'll be working my way_  
_working my way home_  
_i'm working my way back to you_


	2. end of days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a really tough time with myself during Roman vs. Taker at Wrestlemania. Like, seriously, I was in tears for half of it because Roman’s face was just so goddamn sad and expressive and almost dissociated, and hearing the rumor that he burst into tears backstage afterwards pretty much wrecked me. So I wrote about it as a sequel to Working My Way. Have some feelings (and a lil smut), for which I am very sorry. 
> 
>  
> 
> [Soundtrack: Brown Bird – Salt for Salt – “End of Days”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zB0rGsiYMwY)

_winter caps the rooftops_  
_and shrouds the earth in silence_  
_Skaði howls and mourns and revels in the whiteness_  
_my world is so small inside our cozy walls  
__so warm and so threatened by the end of days_

* * *

 

Roman stumbled back up the ramp, a small trickle of blood winding its way down his face. He didn’t bother to wipe it off. He didn’t deserve to.

He knew what he had done, and he knew he was expected to swagger back there with his head high, arms raised, booming some goddamn cocky _soundbite_ about out with the old guard, in with the new. And he knew he couldn’t do it, not with bruises blooming, not with every shred of adrenaline wiped out of his body, not with the fucking _cloud_ that followed so close to his head he half-expected to hear the bells continue to toll and shake his entire body.

What he had just done to the Deadman was low. It was awful. It was _politics._ It was playing the game for so goddamn long that he felt like a piece of furniture being shoved from room to room.

The fucking big dog. Defending his _yard._ Bullshit. _Bullshit._

Bullshit that still hit him in the heart every time because that’s what he _was,_ wasn’t he? Inhuman. A fucking animal in a fucking circus. Stupid, lolling, all too eager to show up at a whistle.

His head throbbed and his heart ached and he just wanted to find a corner and curl up in it forever. _They don’t make corners big enough for me to hide in._

He rounded the corner to pick up his bag and slammed shoulders with Ambrose. The force of the impact spun him towards his brother, who also looked like shit, and they locked eyes for the briefest of moments. Dean spoke three words, low, secretive, that cut Roman’s legs out from under him.

“I called her.”

_you did **what** you can’t fucking let Her see me like this i’m a fucking disappointment to everyone i can’t even look at **myself**_

He followed it up with three more: “She’s here. Somewhere.”

The final three were the worst, right to the heart, right to everything he loved and hated about his brother: “You need her.”

_he’s right he’s fucking right and She’s gonna be so angry and so let down and so upset and where the fuck is She **i need Her** no matter what it is She’ll know what to do She’ll know what to do _

Roman's hands shook as he tried to scroll to Her name, but he dropped his phone and all his confidence shattered and he staggered backwards. His calves bumped into the row of chairs behind him, and he sat, burying his face in his hands, willing himself not to cry while there were still cameras, still crowds milling. He reached down, picked up his phone, and tried to call Her again, but hung up after the first ring, staring a hole into the floor between his boots.  

What would he say? What would She say? She couldn't possibly be proud of him after all he had done, and he didn't think he could bear Her anger and disappointment, the way Her dark eyes flashed and ate into him.

" _Roman_."

His heart stopped in his throat.

Her voice. She was here. She was _here,_ and he felt himself start to shake when he heard Her boots circling him.

Her speech clicked up several authoritative notches and echoed through backstage. "Please leave him alone. He's been through enough already." A beat. " _Now._ " He heard footsteps scatter. In the fuzzy part of his brain that was still sprinting full-tilt through the halls screaming for mercy, he wondered if She ever used That Voice on Her clients, or coworkers, or random assholes in traffic. He bet it worked better than the Force.

She stepped forward, and it was like the perfectly-sized transparent bubble that surrounded Her at all times, the one that screamed Power and Confidence and Love, expanded to shelter him inside. The chatter and noise and music around them grew blurry and quiet until it no longer existed.

She didn’t touch him, pick up his chin and force him to look at Her the way someone else might. She just stood there, oxblood steel-toes and black jeans just at the top edge of his peripheral vision, and waited.

Roman tried to hold it together, but it all came pouring out of him in a jumble of overlapping words that couldn’t have possibly made any sense, inner monologue devouring whole any attempt at coherent communication.

She let him talk until his voice was gone and silent tears streamed down his face. When he finally ran out of words, he waited in desperation for something. A slap. A punch. A handful of his hair dragging him to the floor. A boot to the ribs. Something that he deserved.

Instead, She spoke, and it was so soft, so goddamn _tender_ that at first the words floated over him like a fog before finally, deeply sinking in.

"You did what you were supposed to do. And you hated it. And that's okay."

At that, he sobbed exactly once, long and gasping, turning his face into his hands. He felt pressure and warmth and slowly opened his eyes to discover that She’d closed the distance and stood above him, bent at the waist, Her hands planted on his knees, forehead pressed to his own.

Her eyes were furious, and She carried herself like an avenging angel – all broad shoulders and stiff spine, crouched low and predatory. He was pretty sure he saw a broadsword on Her back.  

 _I did that to Her,_ Roman thought, sick to his very core at what might come next.

“No, you didn’t. Yes, I’m angry. No, it’s not at you. It’s at every other goddamn person on this entire fucking planet.”  

_How does She **do** that?_

She took a single, measured step back, and he fell out of the chair and cracked his knees on the concrete.  _Back straight. Eyes down. Focus._ He closed his eyes hard, willing the tears out, clearing his gaze to concentrate on the red leather.

"I didn't tell you to kneel," She murmured, and he froze, not knowing _what_ to do, not even sure if he should look at Her again. She hooked Her arms under his, and instinctively, he let Her help him stand.

She didn't say a word. She just looked at him, and he knew. He fumbled in his bag for two sets of keys – one for the car, and one tiny cardboard folio for his hotel room – and handed them both over. But to his surprise, She took his bag, too, and wrapped a muscular, brown arm around his waist as they walked, his steps smaller to match Hers.

* * *

 They’d given him the suite that night, which was a fucking _joke_ , he thought. He stood in the middle of the room, eyes on the ugly carpet, while She took the bag from him and began to run the water in the tub.

“I don’t deserve this. Any of this.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud until She picked up Her head from unpacking his bag, fixing him with a gaze that was somehow both vicious and kind.   

“That’s not up to you to decide.”

“I don’t, though. I don’t deserve this, I don’t deserve You, and I certainly don’t deserve whatever it is You’re doing to me right now when You should be kicking my ass into the next county.”

She stood bolt upright, and Roman swore he lost a foot of height in that one-second nonverbal exchange. The only sound was the small hum of the AC and the water running in the bathroom behind them.

She finally spoke again, and Her voice was careful, measured. _She wants me to know this is not a trick question,_ he thought, and that knowledge somehow made him feel even smaller and lighter.

“What, my love, do you think you deserve?”

He meant to match Her tone as closely as he could. He meant to be dignified and articulate and honest. She deserved that from him.

Meant to. And then it all came tumbling out again.

"None of this. None of this except pain. Fucking punch my lights out, make me sleep on the floor or in the car, tell me that I’m a worthless failure who disappointed You. Because I am, I am, that is _all_ that I am – at best a weapon, at worst a fucking animal who needs to be kept on a chain away from the house so I can do the only thing I’m good for, guarding the fucking _yard._ I’m a fucking mess. A wreck. Not even _human._ Hurt me. Please hurt me, Sir. I don't deserve to feel anything else. And definitely not a single shred of Your mercy."

"Roman." Her voice was gentle, but She poured just enough power into it to pick up his gaze.

“First of all, you are _not_ an animal. You are a human _fucking_ being, and if I had the hours tonight and wouldn’t rather spend them on you, I would be out there making sure that every single pathetic excuse for a person who ever made you think that was bleeding profusely. There are many reasons one might be on a leash, but you’re on my leash specifically, and it’s not because you’re some sort of junkyard dog who needs to be dragged into or out of a fight. That’s Ambrose’s job. At least he gets off on it.”

The corner of Her mouth quirked, and the unexpected levity reminded Roman that he had not breathed since She began to speak.

Her gaze shifted rapidly across the room, and he knew that meant She was thinking. He loved the way Her brain worked in tandem with Her body, the way She got Her neurons to fire by pacing or tapping Her fingers or looking to the ceiling for answers. There was no game here; there were no secrets.

She reached down to Her belt buckle, and with a familiar whisper of leather, She pulled it out of the loops in one smooth motion. _She should teach a damn class on that shit_ , Roman thought, and bit back a smile.

Slowly and deliberately, She looped the belt around his neck – not using the buckle as a chokehold, but simply draping the ends as a handle to bring their foreheads together. “ _My_ leash is not about holding you back, or forcing you places you don’t want to go, or reminding you of whatever sick stupid _shit_ someone else may have told you is what you’re worth. My leash exists because I have somehow been lucky enough in this life to have been given the finest man I’ve ever known, and I want to always, _always_ keep him no more than arm’s length from me.”

Lucky. She was _lucky_. She was lucky because of _him_. Roman wasn’t sure he could stand up any longer.

She stepped backwards, and he followed Her into the bathroom, leaning against the counter. She turned off the water, and began to undress him as She spoke again, eyes and hands taking careful inventory of every mark and every place he tensed when She touched him. She left the belt draped over his neck for last, taking the ends in together as She pulled his shirt over his head.

"I know you're in pain, of all kinds, and I know you think I can, and should, take it out of you. That’s what you think you deserve. Somewhere along the way, somebody gave you that message, and if I thought it was that simple to fix, I’d kill them with my bare hands.” Her voice was flippant, and it made Roman feel many _very_ confusing things at the same time before She flicked the switch back to authoritative.

“Remember what happened when you realized you belonged to me? You don't decide what you deserve any longer. And thank god, because you'd beat yourself half to death over what happened tonight. Hurting you right now would do nothing for either of us. But that doesn't mean you're free." 

 _I don’t want to be free_ , he thought, as he stepped into the water. _Not from You, not ever._ She leaned in to wash his tangled hair, and Her voice softened again as he swore he could feel Her fingertips deep in his bones.

She trailed kisses down his jawline and murmured, “Sweet boy, you _belong_ to me, and I take care of what’s mine.”

He thought about their house, which had been Hers before him. Small and cozy, with everything carefully built and maintained and cleaned by hand. He thought about Her favorite jacket and Her boots, and the way She had spent what seemed like hours teaching him exactly how to polish every crevice with saddle soap and leather honey until both their hands ached. He thought about the way She always made the bed, even if no one would see. And then he thought about himself, about the way She knocked him into line when he needed it. The way She stood between him and the world when he felt too broken to carry himself. The way She washed his hair and cleaned his wounds and put him back together.

 _I **am** property_ , he thought. _The most beloved thing She owns. And thank god for that every day of my life._

She had crossed to the other side of the tub to look him in the face, and before he could stop himself, he leaned forward and pulled Her in with him. She sputtered indignantly for a moment but then laughed, and settled down on his lap in Her soaked jeans and t-shirt, and he thought for what must have been the four thousandth time how much he loved Her, how much he loved the authority and power She projected in nothing but cotton and denim.

Then She was holding his face in Her hands, She was kissing him and he was crying, big tears, like he’d been denied all his life. He knew he couldn’t help them, but he also couldn’t seem to help his hands, and as he peeled the soaked shirt from Her body, She arched into him and made an absolutely _terrible,_ wonderful sound that told him this was probably the best decision he’d made so far tonight.

Roman thought about something She’d told him once: that her favorite definition for What It Is That We Do was “negotiated codependence.” And as he got Her to her feet, held Her carefully, and struggled with unwrapping the wet denim clinging to Her legs, desperate to have Her over him, desperate to taste sweat and soap and arousal, it all made perfect sense. When his tongue finally, _finally_ found Her, and She jolted Her hips against his face, his brain shut out every thought in the world except _I need Her. She needs me. I need Her._ He swore he could feel Her pulse in every stroke of her clit, and as he reached up to slip two and then three fingers inside Her, pressing the other hand to Her lower back to keep Her close and balanced, it was like all Her heat and want and _need_ transported him to some other place.

He was sore and bruised and battered. But as he closed his eyes and traced little pictures and feelings over Her cunt, it all seemed to fade to some faraway, wonderful place from which he only snapped awake when She came, hard, reaching down to press the back of his head even deeper into Her. Then he dug into Her like a feast, laying his tongue out for Her to fuck at Her desperate, keening leisure until every last aftershock was gone.

She slid down onto his lap, taking him into Her with a deep breath and a slow, profound roll of Her hips, and he realized he was crying again. She was so beautiful and so tough and so _right_ and nothing else mattered, not the fucked-up shit he’d gone through a few hours earlier, not the mess they were making of the bathroom, not a single goddamn thing except how glorious it felt to have Her kiss the tears off his cheeks and tell him, over and over, how much She loved him as he buried himself in Her to the hilt. How much he _mattered_. How much She thought he _deserved_ this, to be a precious, treasured thing, the most valued out of all the things in the world, to the most priceless woman this earth had ever created.

“Yours,” he gasped into Her neck, feeling his orgasm begin to build, and suddenly that was the only word he knew. _Yours. All I am, all I ever want to be. Yours._ And that thought alone was all it took.

She dried them both off with quiet, gentle pats bookended by kisses.

_How did I live my life without this? Without being cherished and protected and so, so very owned?_

He was so tired, and She was his safe place: softer than any bed, warmer than any home fire he'd ever known.

She tucked him in under the sheets, and began to methodically pace Her way around the bed, arranging things just-so. She knew he hurt, on so many levels, but as She turned him on his side, placing folded pillows and the occasional rolled-up towel underneath the torques and bruises, the pressure and pain began to ease from the parts of him that had hit the floor and been hit, over and over. He’d never asked Her how She knew how to do this, and he wasn’t sure he could handle knowing the answer right now.

Finally, with the job completed to Her exacting satisfaction, She slipped in behind him, tucking Her bottom hand under the pillow and gently draping the other arm over his waist. He tucked that hand into his own, and kissed it. “Thank you, Sir.” _You always know._  

* * *

He stood backstage with Her, hearing the rumble of the Raw crowd through metal and electronics. It was not going to be kind. Not at all. Not after what he'd done.

But when Roman got the "five minutes" cue, he dropped to his knees and wrapped his big arms around Her waist, damned whoever was watching, and She raked Her fingers softly through his scalp and shook out his waves the way he did when She let him play with Her hair. She never took Her lips off his forehead. 

In one swift motion, he stood, scooping Her with him, kissing Her almighty mouth with a ferocity that took the breath away from them both. In some back corner of his mind, he smiled, thinking about how much She hated being lifted off the ground like this, but instead of telling him to put Her down, She held him tighter, hanging off his shoulders as he switched his grip to Her thick, strong thighs without taking a single second away from Her mouth. He held Her there for an eternity, and when he finally broke the kiss, She spoke into his lips, so low it was felt more than heard.

"You are a fucking warrior, Roman, of countless generations before you, and that means battle is in your blood. That _doesn't_ mean every clash is an easy one, or one you're eager to fight. But it means you will fight, on whatever battlefield you have, and you will make us all proud, and then, most importantly, you will come  _home._ "

 _Home,_ he thought. _Home to You._

He set Her down, took one last kiss, and stepped out onto the entrance ramp.

 

 _the time will surely come_  
_when all is blown undone_  
_but i will still be with you, my love_  
_this deafening quiet may grasp around my chest  
__but i will pry its bony fingers free_  


	3. state of grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a small silly interlude following the events of Raw 4/10/17. Otherwise known as "Ow, my feelings. And also, my entire body." No smut here, just a lot of Southern-ness. Bonus appearances by Dean Ambrose and Sami Zayn and, of course, Braun Strowman. As with previous chapters, written on a lot of Nyquil, because apparently every time Roman gets hurt, I get sick the very next day? Huh.
> 
> [Soundtrack: Baby Dee and Little Annie feat. Bonnie “Prince” Billy – State of Grace – “State of Grace”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q4S-sVCm4-E)

 

> _i'm not one to run from a challenge_  
>  _willingly to lay down and die_  
>  _cash in my chips, call it a day_  
>  _give up the ghost  
>  _ _you choose the cliché_
> 
> _not very often i've folded_  
>  _no matter how lousy my hand_  
>  _and though optimistic  
>  _ _i'm not masochistic  
>  _ _that's why i got us a plan..._

* * *

  _I deserve this. She was wrong. They were right. I deserve this._

Blood. Searing pain. The teeth-rattling scream of metal on metal. Roman couldn't remember anything else.

He didn't know that she had already vaulted the barricade and was running full-tilt towards the back, boots thudding off the steel. He didn't know that a huge pack of security guards, all dressed in black, tried to block her way, but she squared her shoulders and her wordless glare cleared a path better than any haymaker. 

The first person she saw was Sami, and the redhead was pacing, twisting his fingers, petrified. When she stopped in front of him, gathering her breath, and laid a hand on his arm, he flinched. But her touch was gentle, and so was her voice, tinged with a drawl that was even more evident than usual.

"Where is he? Where did they take him?" 

"I-I don't know. Nobody will tell me. I think they're afraid if he finds out, he'll follow them there." She knew exactly the  _he_ to which Sami was referring. 

"Are you okay, Sami? We're gonna figure this out." She was digging in her pocket for her phone.

"I'm fine. He didn't touch me."

"But he  _has._ You know better than anyone else here what it's like." Her voice made him want to melt into the floor, but he wasn’t sure exactly _why._

"Yeah. Yeah." He swallowed anxiously, and she grabbed him by the back of the neck, pressing their foreheads together for a few moments as her phone rang. 

Click. Echoes. Noise. "Hey, I was about to call you, did you see -"

"Where is he, Dean?" Her voice was still quiet but there was no mistaking the grit behind it as she paced.

"Hospital," he grumbled. "Dueling Banjos over there tore up the medical room and half of backstage, and our man was out cold anyway. Fifteen miles, maybe? I'm in the garage. Level 2."

"Thirty seconds."

She was about to hang up when Ambrose's voice came through the speaker again. "You gonna kill him?"

She laughed, already heading to the stairs. "I hope so."

"That's my girl."

She shook her head. "Not yours, you corn-fed son of a bitch." 

Dean could hear the smirk in her voice. Now it was his turn to laugh, and she ended the call before opening the door and firing back over her shoulder, "Sami! You coming?"

He hesitated for about two seconds before bolting towards the stairwell with her. 

> _for something strange is upon us_  
>  _i can feel it deep in my bones_  
>  _time to cut our losses  
>  _ _time to cut and run_
> 
> _so meet me on the bronx side_  
>  _of the willis avenue bridge_  
>  _as dusk turns dusty orange_  
>  _you will know me  
>  _ _by the fear in my eyes_

The GPS said twenty minutes. Dean got them there in thirteen, and despite the foot or so of height between them, she outpaced them, led the pack into the entryway and crouched to quietly address the triage nurse behind the front desk. The boys couldn't hear what she said, but she straightened up and beckoned, and they followed several feet behind. 

"I would  _not_ wanna be Strowman right now, I'll tell you that much," Dean muttered. 

Sami crinkled his eyebrows, deepening the worried frown that hadn't left him since the car. "Really? But -"

"Look. You know him. But you don't know  _her._ Hell, I don't know her a fraction as well as my brother, and I'm still already planning the funeral after he bleeds out from her ripping him a new asshole.”

They'd stuck him in a side room with a sliding glass door. Something about privacy. Roman heard a fuss, and cringed, waiting for things to start breaking. Everything just  _hurt._ His eyes wouldn't focus.

Instead, the door opened quietly, and three very familiar figures yanked the curtain aside and emerged in a nervous clump. Roman wanted to vault out of the bed, embrace them, kiss Her with his still-bloody mouth, but his limbs all felt so heavy and slow. 

"You're here," he croaked, dry-mouthed and shivering. "You're  _here._ " 

She smiled, and sat on the bed next to him, softly tracing her thumb over his lower lip. Once again he felt that sense of being enveloped in Her bubble. Confidence. Security. Love. "I'm here. We're here." The other two took the chairs on either side, nodding in agreement.

"As long as you're with me, Sir," he mumbled, and he saw Sami crook an eyebrow at the honorific. _Oops_. 

“I am, boy, and we're going to figure this out.”

Roman was exhausted. He could tell She was, too. He'd taken so much pain over the last couple weeks, She’d taken so much of it for him, and even with Her at his side, he wasn't sure he had any reserves left. His head was spinning, and he just wanted to lie down forever in the metaphysical comfort of Her presence. The big man slumped back down, tubes and needles everywhere, and thought -

"Let him in." She turned Her fiery eyes to his, and he repeated himself. "Let him in. He's coming for me. They were right. Just get it over with. I love You, but I can't fight him like this. I'm sorry, Sir.”

"What did I tell you, Roman? The last time?" She took a deep, shaky breath, and continued. "You don't decide if that's what you deserve anymore. You made that choice. You _belong_ to me, and I take care of what's mine." The power eking out of the cracks in Her voice expanded and filled the room, and Roman wondered, not for the first time, if there wasn't a  _lot_ more that She didn't let on, even to him.

Now all three of the men in the room were locked onto her face. Roman looked like he was trying hard not to cry. Sami was thoroughly confused. Dean was pretty sure he was turned on. 

"I told you that you would fight, and I told you that you would _come home_." Her voice shook a little, and she paused to let out a big exhale. "You did one of those things. Now, are you going to give up, or are you going to do the other one too?" She reached for him, and he threw his head back as she lightly dragged her fingertips down his exposed throat.

Dean looked over and realized his brother _was_ , in fact, about to cry. Big brown eyes full of big tears and looking at her not only like she made the goddamn sun shine, but like she could blow it up and take the entire world out too if she damn well chose. Like that weird question was the best news he could have ever hoped to get.

She reached up and took his face in her hands, and he nodded, and spoke slowly. "Yessir. I don't think I deserve this, but that's not up to me. I don't think I deserve You either, but I've gotten that far." He almost smiled.

Then they heard it. Big footsteps coming down the hall towards them. Ambrose looked around for a glass of water, because this was some _Jurassic Park_ shit.

She raised her eyebrows, but didn't let go of Roman's face. Then she said, "I love you, boy," before kissing him so thoroughly that even Dean found himself blushing. Roman mumbled something in return, and she pecked his forehead before turning back and setting both feet firmly on the floor.

She checked her bootlaces, stood up, and brushed some imaginary dust off her jeans. Then, as the stomping got louder and closer, she began to casually unbutton her cuffs and roll up her pinstriped shirtsleeves to the elbow, exposing the dark brown skin of her forearms, pinned-up curls dropping down into her eyes as she tilted her head down.

"What are you doing _?_ " Sami hissed, wide-eyed, and she turned and fixed him with a smile that was so goddamn  _nonchalant_ it almost made him mad. _How does she not understand what is happening right now? Does she honestly think she's going to take down Braun fucking Strowman? Somebody needs to go with her. Somebody needs to **stop** her - _

 _"_ I like this shirt. Don't need to get blood on it."

And then she winked. And cracked her knuckles. 

 _Oh_. 

Dean's jaw dropped. _Thank god she's taken, because otherwise I would do something **real** stupid right about now. _ He glanced over at Sami, who was white-knuckling the railing on Roman's bed so hard it looked like he might snap it in half.

She reached into her back pocket, and pulled out a knife - a nice one, Dean noticed, one of those big folding Ken Onion deals - and, to his surprise, handed it to him. 

"Watch the door. Keep it open. I don't want him getting the idea of putting me through the glass. If he puts me down, I'm going do my very best to ensure that there's nothing left the two of you can't handle."

Before they could react, she was gone. 

An enormous shadow appeared in front of the door, and Dean and Sami froze, horrified, watching Strowman stare her down. 

"What do you think you're doing out here, little girl?" His huge, thick voice boomed through the hallway.

She turned into an upright stance, instinctively making herself an even smaller target, although she didn't raise her guard. But then she changed her mind, shook her head and faced him head-on. _She's still giving him a chance to back off_ , Sami thought in amazement. _A chance to do the right thing. Or at least she wants him to think that._

And then something came from her mouth that none of the men expected: a slow, homey drawl, almost as heavy as Strowman's but with a precision honed from years of urban life _._

"Call me that _again,_ you Kentucky-fried sack of shit." Her voice was eerily calm. That couldn't possibly be good. And then she laughed, beautifully, and that was probably worse. 

Roman himself was barely conscious, in a haze of pain and drugs, but hearing Her voice through the door was like hearing god through a tunnel of white light. Hearing Her _drawl_ put a twisted little smile on his bruised face. That only came out in full on very special occasions. Some tiny corner of his brain screamed at him that he should _get up get up **get up and help Her**_ **,** but the remaining trails of Her overwhelming and all-encompassing love kept him still, warm and bundled-up and helplessly restrained.

"Stay put," She had said, and that's what he would do. 

_It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be okay because She said so._

Strowman cocked his head, seemingly unable to decide whether she was brave or completely insane. "Why are you still in my way? You know what happens when people get between me and what's mine." He jerked his head in the direction of the room. 

In response, she actually took a step forward, shoulders locked, spine rigid, as close to him as she could while still giving him some sort of brutally efficient alpha stare that seemed to go on for minutes. Somehow, despite the massive size differential, she was looking down her nose at him with a glare straight out of David Attenborough. A lioness. Primal. Predatory.

 _That,_ both of the boys thought simultaneously,  _was a very bad choice._

She allowed herself two words of anger. Two words bitten off between gritted teeth. Two words loaded with so much power and rage and intimacy that the biggest guy in the building took a stutter-step away and actually averted his eyes.

" ** _Not. Yours_**."

Sami was silent, but excitedly shaking his fists in the air. Dean didn't even realize he was hollering until he was halfway through the sentence. “Fuckin' A, ya monster-truck motherfucker!”

Strowman whipped his head around and glared at Ambrose, who vaulted out of his chair and had swaggered halfway to the door, positively roaring for some violence, before being pulled up, looking back, and realizing Roman had caught his wrist.

“Stay. Put.”

Then he turned his eyes forward with a start, and Ambrose followed his line of sight only to see that she'd taken Strowman's face in her hand, forcing his gaze back to hers.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll back up right now, get the fuck out of here, and send a nice handwritten apology. Then I might go easy on you." She spoke so lowly it almost couldn't be heard, but her body language shimmered from a mile away.

He looked down at her for a moment, then jerked away from her grip, shaking his head as though she’d put cobwebs in there. “So what, the big dog has to send out a girl to do his work for him? Those other two ain't enough of a joke?”

"The man is in a goddamn hospital bed because of you, ain't that enough? I know the powers that be truly know how to _pick_ ‘em as far as brains are concerned, but let me make it real simple: if a girl is the one standing between you and Roman Reigns, that _girl_ is the one you best watch out for. He answers to me, and now so do you."

He looked her up and down, and snorted. "Move." 

She didn't look away. She didn't flinch. She rolled her goddamn eyes.  

"White boy, I  _know_ you." She drawled the word out for several syllables. "I'm only gonna say this once, so I'll use small words: I spent the first twenty years of my life in Sundown fuckin' County. I've never gotten into it with someone who had _less_ than a foot and a buck-twenty or so on me, so if you'resupposed to scare me, it ain't working." She chuckled, and if the deep parts of the ocean had a sound, it would be exactly that. "I've been eating punks like you for breakfast since you were still tryina make the JV football team."

Sami whispered across the bed, "Is she _provoking_ him? She's gonna get herself killed!"

"Zayn," Ambrose growled. "Take it easy. She's got it. If she didn't, he'd be in here by now. And if that changes, I'll be the first one out of your way so you can jump on him like a goddamn spider monkey. But let her do her thing first, because that's the best way to get us out of here without anybody else getting hurt."

"How do you  _know?_ " Sami was clearly flashing back to one too many memories of his own trauma, wincing as he relived all the things the Monster had thrown him into or off of.  _I barely made it ten minutes with him, and she's been out there maybe even longer._

"Because I know my brother, and I know he trusts her with his life. No small feat. Plus I _may_ have heard a rumor that she dislocated the jaw of the last guy who so much as  _touched_ our boy in a way he didn't like." Dean grinned as the memory of that retelling took the edge off his own nerves, and glanced over at Roman, who gave him a tiny smile back. He looked tense as hell, but he wasn't moving. 

Outside, Strowman took another step back, lowered his head, and growled at her. 

In return, she threw her own head back and laughed. "How does it feel to be a goddamn lapdog, punk? You and Joe, just coming when the _bigger_ men whistle and hurting people who don't deserve it because you have to do what you’re _told_. Is that what your momma wanted from your life? Is she proud?" 

At that, he swung wildly on her, but she didn't even seem to have to duck. Instead, she just ran at him, and her low center of gravity knocked him further backwards until he slammed into the wall and slid to the ground. 

Sami watched in fascinated horror, half-raised from his chair. _She's so small,_ he thought. _This is crazy. She literally cannot fight him without putting herself in the line of fire._

He grabbed her throat and staggered to his feet, lifting her off the ground, and Sami immediately jumped up and ran, throwing himself into Strowman's side, forcing him off balance even as the larger man shoved him back into the doorway.

Her face looked panicked for a brief moment, and then she grabbed his arm, gasped for air, and kicked the Monster Among Men square in the balls. He dropped her and doubled over, right into _her_ line of fire, and she landed a right hook combination so neatly on his jaw that his face whipped back onto the cinderblocks with an audible, terrifying sound.

He slumped, and she grabbed his ear and torqued it like a Catholic-school nun. At that, he actually cried out in pain, and with her other hand, she reached for his knuckles and squeezed, hard, twisting his arm towards the ground and taking his torso with it. 

 _Pain compliance,_ Sami thought, frozen where he stood. _Why didn't I think of that?_

“Because you’re too goddamn big to have to learn to fight dirty,” she said calmly, answering the question he hadn’t asked aloud.

At the same moment, he felt a _thwack_ on his upper arm, and he jumped before realizing Dean was excitedly punching him from the doorway. "Are you  _seeing_ this, Zayn? Holy shit!" 

Sami nodded excitedly, and then felt weird about it and stopped. "Should we help her get him out of here?"

"I dunno man, I feel like she's gonna make it very clear if she needs us for anything. Yes  _sir._ " Dean winked, Sami turned bright red, and Roman made a half-assed move to slap at both of them. "What? Don't get all schoolboy on me now, Reigns. You never told me you had a boss bitch with two capital Bs! Does she make you wear a collar? Because mine -"

"Shut  _up,_ " Sami gasped. But they both still turned to Roman, who gave the biggest grin his busted face would allow and made a V-for-victory sign at Dean, who reached out for a fist bump. 

"You get two? Like, one for special occasions?  _Shit._ " Dean grinned, and then seemed to remember there was a fight going on outside their door. He bolted through, and Sami followed an instant later. 

They didn't know exactly what had elapsed in that minute or two, but she had brought Strowman the rest of the way to the floor, knees bent underneath him. Her nose was bleeding a little bit, but she had almost her full weight on the knee jammed into the back of the big man's shoulder joint. Add that to that death grip on his knuckles, and he appeared to be going nowhere. 

She was talking into his ear in a low voice, thick with promise and malice, and he looked glazed over and frankly exhausted. Finally, he nodded, and she let him go. Dean and Sami both tensed, ready to make the grab, but to their surprise, he stayed on the ground and didn't move. 

She stepped back, and spread her arms in front of Sami and Dean like they were children about to run into traffic. Strowman stumbled to his feet, one huge hand gripping the wall for balance. He looked at her, then at the two men behind her, and finally over her head at the barely-conscious Roman. He gave a small nod, and then did the unthinkable: he left. Just turned and slowly ambled away.

She turned to face the two men on their feet, and managed to mumble, “Please make sure he’s gone,” before collapsing into one of the chairs at Roman’s side. They looked at each other, and started to make their way down the hall.

Roman reached out and grabbed Her hand, kissing the palm of it as though he was afraid of hurting Her. She took a few deep breaths before managing to lift Herself onto the bed, curling up to his side like a kitten. Tomorrow, She knew, was going to be terrible, but that was at least a few hours away.

 

> _while we got something left to lose_  
>  _we gotta get out of this place_  
>  _blow this busted city  
>  _ _and find a state of grace_


	4. stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter for Roman Reigns Appreciation Week day 6 over on Tumblr :)
> 
> featuring the idea that the person you go to for slightly cranky unsolicited advice is most definitely Chris Jericho, aka "Drunk Uncle Chris" in tumblr user @never-shuts-up and I's headcanon thank you very much
> 
> (also, thank you everyone who has read this and provided such amazing encouragement on what has become a most precious thing for me. I appreciate it so much.)
> 
> potential warnings for this chapter: PTSD symptoms/a panic attack, allusions to a break-in.
> 
>  
> 
> [Soundtrack: the Slackers - Self-Medication - "Stars"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=my05ssEhcZQ)

_the stars that wouldn't shine_  
_they don't go away_  
_just cause you don't see them shining here today_  
_the stars that wouldn't shine_  
_just haven't been seen here_  
_and they may not arrive for a million years_  

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Roman got off the plane, She wasn't there at Arrivals.

She was _always_ there. 

He waited until everyone else had long emptied out of the baggage claim, and then tried to call Her. Straight to voicemail. He texted, but no response, and every anxiety he'd ever had churned straight to the surface, immediately flopping over to show its fearful underbelly. 

_She finally caught on. you don't deserve Her. something bad must have happened. what if one of those idiots hurt Her? they wouldn't go to the house, would they? he came to the fucking **hospital**  after you, you jerk. maybe She's tired of protecting you because you can't stick up for yourself_. _maybe She doesn't love you anymore._

His brain eventually settled on what he knew was the most self-centered reason but, in equal parts, perhaps the easiest and most likely: _She doesn't love me anymore She thinks i'm not worth it._

He texted Her again, and didn't get a reply. Fuck.

_where the hell am i going to go all my stuff is at the house_

Suddenly a hand touched his back, and he jumped about a foot in the air before whipping around. _is it Her? who the fuck is touching me? it has to be Her._

It wasn't Her. It was a very confused-looking Chris Jericho, who must have come in on the next flight and was looking infuriatingly fresh as a daisy with his fancy jacket and his matching suitcases and _oh my god why right now why?_

"You okay, big man?" Chris looked genuinely concerned, flipping the end of his scarf over his shoulder.

Roman took a deep breath, trying to keep it all from tumbling out of his chest in a rush.

_She always tells you not to lie._

"My... my partner was supposed to pick me up and She's not here. I don't really know what to do." There. That was good. That was true and enough to shut him up, right?

"You called her?"

_fuck, he's still talking._ "Yeah, and She didn't pick up."

"You guys live together, don't you? Come on, I'll give you a ride to the house."

_shit. oh god, no, this is the worst idea._

"But what if..." Roman tried to choke the words off, not even wanting to give a voice to the fear, but it was too late to stop it from hitting him like a freight train. "What if She's not here because She doesn't want me there?"

Chris gave him what could only be described as a Big Look. "Man. I know you've had a tough run lately, but how long have you been with this girl, now?"

He instinctively rattled off, "Three years, nine -"and then cut himself off before he got to the days because even though he knew, he always knew, that would be weird even for _him_. Bad enough that fuckin' _Ambrose_ knew what was up, knew the extent of how much he _needed_ Her, and was now constantly giving him that shit-eating grin that had to make everyone know there was some sort of secret going around. "Almost four years." _Yeah. There we go._

"And in all that time, has she ever let you down?"

Roman shook his head slowly and emphatically. " _Never_."

Jericho looked pleased with himself, and continued. "You love her, and she's not here, so you're worried and thinking of the worst-case scenario. You want a little unsolicited advice?"

_anything. oh god. anything._ "Yeah, I guess."

"Don't be a stupid idiot. The woman went boot-to-boot with about four hundred pounds of angry hillbilly just because he was mean to you. I believe that falls into what the kids are calling 'wife goals.' And you think she's kicking you out without even saying goodbye? Come on, car's this way. We can find out if your key still works." The older man winked and gave him a hard slap on the back, and Roman suddenly understood a lot of things about Chris Jericho.

He spent the ride in an anxious daze, picking at nonexistent threads on his jeans and not even having the heart to complain about Chris's taste in music, which was at worst terrible and at best slightly narcissistic.

Her car was in the driveway, and sure enough, despite his nerves, the door unlocked just like he hoped, albeit a bit sticky in the heat. Roman slowly eased his way in, noticing Her keys, headphones, and a few other things on the hooks nearby. Halfway through, he turned to Jericho, who called out through the open window, "Do you want me to wait?"

_yes. no. i have no idea.._ Roman shrugged, and Chris took that as a yes, perfectly content to hang out and drum his fingers on the steering wheel. All Roman's stuff was still in the trunk, anyway. Just in case.

All the lights he could see were off and the house was still and quiet. This wasn't at all unusual; Her upbringing left a fairly structured set of habits, particularly when it came to waste, and She almost compulsively turned things off as soon as they weren't in active use, more than once accidentally leaving him in the dark when going from room to room, much to his laughter and Her embarrassment. She'd never admitted it, but Roman suspected it was why She was so indulgent about things like soaking for ages in hotel bathtubs when he was working - a lot easier to relax when you don't pay the water bill. 

"Sir? Are You here? I saw Your car. I missed You. I didn't know where You were and I got scared." _god, reigns, you sound like an idiot. a **stupid**  idiot. like a mewling fucking kitten trying to find its mother with its eyes still closed._ _._

The house was silent. He checked the kitchen and living room before ducking into their bedroom and not seeing anything. The guest room was empty. So was the backyard. He finished off prowling around the basement, feeling lost in his own house. Their house. Her house.

_something is very wrong. where **is** She? _

"Sir?" His voice choked up the tiniest bit. For lack of any better ideas, he went back to the front door, and that's when he saw it - a tiny spiderweb of cracks leading out from the latch. Like the door had been slammed. 

Or like somebody had forced it open. 

He made another, more frantic lap around the small house, big strides eating up the distance easily, and that's when the second thing suckerpunched him: the tall four-poster bed was unmade. 

She always made the bed. _Always_. He had to almost physically stop Her from doing it when they were traveling and even then it made Her so uncomfortable that he got in the habit of requesting housekeeping while they were at breakfast. 

She said it made Her feel safe. Like She had Her shit together. If nothing else, She got to come home from a long day at work and tuck Herself tightly under those crisp sheets - her dad was in the Army and had taught Her and Her siblings how to do it perfectly. As far as Roman knew, it was never mandatory in Her childhood home; just a thing She found soothing that became a compulsion amidst all the chaos. Control. 

The rumpled sheets and crushed, perpendicular pillows were as bad as bloodstains. Maybe worse. He spotted Her phone on the night table, and picked it up, a gesture that made him flinch because it was Hers and not for him. He mashed some buttons but didn't even get a lock screen. Dead.

Dead.

He turned, ready to run back to the front door, throw it open, tell Chris to call the police. And then he heard the creak, and what sounded like a shaky breath. 

_whoever did this is still here. in our fucking house. in our fucking bedroom._ Anxiety evaporated into anger and confusion as Roman stalked over to the closet and threw it open. Nothing. 

Then he saw the third sign: a large swath of the quilt, which he'd thought was merely pulled off the bed, was actually tucked underneath it. 

_who... why would they hide under the bed? and... is that crying?_

Knowing he was taking a huge, stupid risk, Roman got on his hands and knees and peered underneath. A small, blanket-wrapped bundle. No features visible. He couldn't quite reach it, but he knew. His whole body screamed out, threatening to tear the bed apart, and he had to force himself calm as he gently called out Her name. 

In return, She sobbed. 

 

* * *

 

_they cross the darkened skies like a ghostly ship_  
_and because they deny your eyes,  
you'd like to say they don't exist_  
_they may not reach these shores until we're all long dead_  
_but like a light you're seeing now,_  
_they too are light-years ahead_

 

In three years, nine months, and one day, he'd never seen Her like this. She'd warned him it could happen. She'd seen and done things that most people filed under impossible, and Roman knew he'd heard maybe a tenth of it. 

Instinctively, he reached for Her, and she pulled back even further, dark eyes faintly visible from the nest of bedclothes. His heart sank, and he pulled himself back, dropping to his hands and knees.

"Are You okay? Wait. Fuck. That's a really stupid question. I'm sorry. Are You safe? Do You need me to get help?"

She slowly, cautiously shook Her head, and Her voice was hoarse and cracking. She sounded so exhausted. It made him want to cry. "I don't know. There was...I thought there was someone in the house. Sometimes I don't know about things."

"I just went through the whole house twice trying to find You." Roman's attempt to tamp down on his panic made his voice louder than he expected, startling them both. He dropped his head and tried again. "I didn't see anyone. It looked like something happened at the front door."

A loud honk startled them both again. _Jericho._ "Shit. I'm sorry, Sir. Chris dropped me off and he wanted to wait to make sure everything was okay. I'm going to go talk to him and I'll be right back. Is that okay?"

"You checked the house?" Her voice was still shaking and it felt like his heart was going to pieces. 

"Twice, Sir. I didn't see anyone, and everything is locked up. It'll only take a moment."

She nodded, and curled back up in the quilt. Part of him wanted to take Her with him, just thrown over his shoulder so he'd never have to let Her out of his line of sight. 

Roman almost broke the door down in his haste to get outside. 

"Everything okay?" Chris asked. He'd gotten out and was leaning on the hood of the SUV with Roman's bags stacked nearby. 

"Yeah. Yeah. I mean, She's... She's sick. Not feeling so good. Can't get out of bed and Her phone died."

Jericho patted him on the arm. "See, man? I told you. Does she need a ride? Hospital-sick?"

Roman considered it for a moment. "I...I don't think so? If She does, I can take Her, though. I don't want to hold you up." He paused, and then added in what he hoped was a conspiratorial tone, "She can be a little stubborn sometimes. You know how it is."

Chris grinned in recognition. "I dig it. She's a tough lady. Well, call me if you need anything, okay? I might call you later or tomorrow to check up, if you don't mind."

Roman nodded. "Sure, man. That sounds fine. I appreciate all your help."

"Anytime, brother." Jericho patted his arm again and opened the driver's side door. 

After seeing Chris off, Roman grabbed his things and all but sprinted back inside, but then caught himself and slowed his footsteps as he headed back to the bedroom. _don't want to scare Her again._

When he approached, he saw that She had pulled Herself out from under the bed but remained wrapped up in the quilt. His knees hit the hardwood and he dropped as close to Her level as he could get. 

_what do i do? what do i do She always takes care of me and now She's hurting and i'm a helpless fucking child. what kind of man am i if i can't care for Her after all She does for me? so fucking selfish thinking i could just follow orders the rest of my life and take and take and not give Her back what She needs, i'm a fucking failure._

_fuck. reigns. breathe. **think**. you've never seen Her like this but it's not like She's never had a bad day. _

_fuck. fucking say something. anything._

Roman couldn't think of a single sentence that made any sense. Then he remembered what She'd said before he went outside. 

"The house is clear, Sir. I've got it under control. Do You need anything?"

A small shake of Her head. 

"Is it okay if I put You in bed? I don't know how long You've been down there but it must hurt. I promise I'll stay awake. If anything happens, I'll deal with it." He bit his lip, and thought of the words She'd given him so many times. "You're safe. I will make _sure_ that You're safe." It didn't have the same power behind it, not by a long shot, but it was the best he could think to do. 

She gave him an equally small nod and then Her body shook with dry, wracking sobs. At first Roman thought he had fucked up again, but then he realized She looked wide-eyed,  _relieved._  He scooped Her up, amazed by how tiny She could make Herself when She needed to, and gently laid Her out on the bed, rearranging the sheets and quilt until She started to relax and uncurl Herself just a bit. He rubbed small circles on Her back through the bedclothes until She started breathing normally and rolled over to face him. 

"I-I... I don't know what happened exactly." Her voice was blown out, barely above a whisper. "Last night. Somebody came banging on the door. Yelling. Tried to kick it in. Almost broke the strike plate."

_Oh shit._ Roman remembered how particular She was about the doors. Long before he'd ever moved in, She had replaced all the bolts, plates, screws, even the door itself, with ones that would pretty much withstand a tank. She was constantly checking and adjusting them to make sure everything was secure. 

"Did they get inside?" he asked, and then realized that nerves had made his voice  _much_ too loud again. She cringed back into the quilt, and his heart broke over and over. He reached out for Her, then thought better of it, placing his hands - _my big, stupid, clumsy hands_ \- on the bed next to Her instead. 

After a long while, She reached over and rested Her fingers on top of his. "Not this time. But they came back early in the morning and tried again. I hid." Her voice was thick with shame. She was out of tears to cry. 

_Not this time._

_Oh **shit**. _ He'd asked her about the door back when they first met. She'd told him simply that She'd had Her apartment broken into before and that it wasn't going to happen again. There was a weight to Her voice that at that time he hadn't recognized but now he knew it was power, plain and simple; pouring Her will into those words as though it might make them true even as She rubbed the jagged remnants of leftover scar tissue on Her perfect arms and hands. 

What he'd eventually recognized as defensive wounds. 

He leaned over and pressed his lips to her fingers. "You did good," he mumbled awkwardly over the scar on her wrist, not even sure if praise was the right tactic. Not really sure of anything. "They didn't get in. You kept Yourself safe. Kept homesafe." 

"Not good enough." That familiar steel was starting to glint its way through. "Not  _fucking_ good enough." Her voice picked up speed, a machete crashing through a tangled jungle of vines and branches. "I can't be there for you the way you need me to. That's my only job, and I'm a failure at it. A fucking failure." She leaned down and wiped her face on the blanket. "Everything I've done in my  _life_ was to create safety for myself and the people around me. Whether it's running or hiding or just trying to make a home for us, I can't get it right. I always fuck up. I always let my guard down. I work so hard but I can't get it in the right direction."

"You've been there for me so many times," he whispered. 

"But not this time, and that's what matters. You're only as good as your last fight." Her voice cracked, and Roman knew that last sentence was more than words. It poured out of her like an incantation. A mantra. A hard-learned lesson, maybe over generations. 

"No." He spoke quietly this time, but found his own edge, not nearly as strong as Hers but still present in a way that made Her dark eyes open fully and fix on him. 

Roman felt dizzy.  _She wants to be wrong. but i'm pretty sure She also wants to slap the taste out of my mouth for saying it._

_fuck it. if i get in trouble, so be it. worth every second._

He took a deep breath, cupped Her face in his hands, and kissed Her. She tensed up, just a fraction, but didn't stop him, and soon closed Her eyes, sank into him, slowly unfurling the tension in Her body like leaves reaching for the sun.

Between kisses, he grumbled deep in his throat, "You're wrong. I know that'll earn me an ass-kicking, but You're  _wrong._ You're worth so much more than that. People have hurt You, people have hurt You so _much_ " - he paused, kissing all over Her hands and wrists - "and not only have You carried that, but You've carried me. You've carried all of us. And we're so fucking weak that we just take it from You and can't even hope in our entire lives to give back a fraction of what we owe."

He carried on kissing Her face, Her hands, every tiny bit of skin She exposed to him, and when She finally interrupted, it was to look him seriously in the face and say, "It's not _supposed_ to be fair. I'm supposed to take care of you."

"Nah." He grinned, knowing he was being obnoxious and loving every second of it. Just a little. "You're just supposed to boss me around. Caring goes both ways."

She just sighed, and he kissed Her again. "I missed you."

"Missed you too, Sir." _always. every minute._

She reached for him for the first time since he'd been home, and gently settled Her hand on his throat. "Aren't you missing something else, boy?"

His hand flew up to cover Hers, and he audibly gasped, much to Her amusement. "I-I-I'm so sorry, Sir. Fuck. I wasn't thinking." 

"Go take care of that. Better yet, bring it here, and _I'll_ take care of it." 

Roman was pretty sure he set a land-speed record of some kind in his haste to get his collar from the front-door hook and sprint back upstairs.

She began to untangle herself from the blankets, and he realized She was wearing nothing but Her sleeping clothes, boxers and a tank top, underneath. She caught him staring, and glanced down, smirking briefly at Herself before taking the strip of leather from his hand. She stood up, stretching Her stiff muscles, and leaned back against the edge of the bed as he knelt at Her feet, eyes down. The stretch seemed to unleash something in Her, and suddenly the house felt creaky and warm and almost normal, almost as good as coming home had left him spoiled to feel. 

She began to pace around him, barefoot and quiet, and everything was so different when there was no fight left in either of them.

Her collar slipped around his neck with a whisper of effort and as She traced one fingertip down the length of his clothed spine, he sank back on his heels and thought about the tattoo on Her thigh that said, in Her mother's language,  _I have arrived. I am home._  

When She circled around to the front again, he reached for Her waist, his big hands soft as silk, and kissed the black and grey until She wound fingers in his hair and tugged. He followed instantaneously, all his size and power lost in the grace She gave him. The ability to follow. The willingness. The need. 

He still bore the bruises and She still bore the heartbreak but this time Her power was loose, abstractly formed, a meandering stratus that wound lazily around them like smoke in still air but left no doubt as to its presence and he loved Her. He loved Her and he belonged to Her and now, maybe more than ever, _that_ was what She needed to know. The world could take a lot of things from them, but it couldn't take him away from Her. 

_be perfect for Her. not because She demands it, but because it's what She deserves._

It was all so familiar. It was all like nothing he'd ever felt before. After what She'd been through, Roman expected to be used. He did make an awfully good punching bag. He did not expect Her to throw him onto the bed and palm his half-hard cock until he whimpered. He did not expect Her to straddle him, pressed so closely he feared he might tear through his jeans. He did not expect Her to slide Her hands over the strip of skin that was exposed when his shirt rode up, and then follow it with Her tongue until he let out an indescribable cry of joy. 

Her fists slamming into his chest made more sense. She'd been scared, She'd been lonely, She'd been pissed at Herself and at the world, and of course She'd want to take it out on him. What he did not expect, even after all this time, was the  _noise_  She made, one that put the "sadist" in "sadomasochism," and the way She ground herself against him harder and harder every time he rolled his head back and took another hit, another bite, another rake of Her short nails. 

"Oh, my sweet boy, this isn't revenge at the world. This is because we are alive and we are real and you are mine and I am yours and that is all that matters." 

_Yours. i am Yours. i have always **been**  Yours, long before i even knew You existed. _

She was blooming and tender and gloriously, perfectly inescapable. Even as he fought in Her grip, Roman knew he never wanted to be anywhere else. The rest of the world was muted and this place, this room, this crackle of space between them threw a loop that only drew them closer. When She tugged his jeans open and took all of him in Her mouth at once, he had to death-grip the headboard to keep from knocking Her over, even despite the bruising forearm She'd pinned across his chest. And when She sighed, "Mine," that single word infused with a lifetime's worth of agony and not-knowing and _finally fucking finally i have a place where i belong_ _,_ he almost came on the spot. Instead, somehow he held on, somehow he reached his fingers towards Her perpendicular body, somehow he found Her and worked through Her soaking-wet shorts until his fingers were engulfed in that sweet, wonderful place that felt like home and tasted like heaven, somehow he kept it together even as She released his chest and pressed Her fingers to his lips, groaning from deep within Her as he sucked them into his mouth and cried out around Her hand. 

_not without You. nothing without You._

He knew She was coming when She started to get sloppy, pulling Her fingers out of his mouth to give one final, heavy slap on his cheek, looking up at him with damp eyes and slick lips and god, Her skin, Her  _skin,_ all flushed and red underneath the brown, face dark against his thigh, hips bucking hard, cunt squeezing his fingers tight. 

_i did that to Her, She looks at **me**  like that,  **She**  looks at me like that_

And then he was coming, making a mess of Her mouth and Her face, pulling Her up to lick his fingers clean and kiss Her deeply, tongues and scents and tastes mingling into something that was so far beyond joy, so far beyond perfect that he wasn't sure the right words existed anymore, if they ever had. 

 

* * *

 

_the stars that wouldn't shine_  
_have been left for dead_  
_because they take their time,  
you haven't seen them yet_  
_they may not arrive for a million days_  
_it don't mean they don't try to make it through the haze_

 

They sat on the back porch, him in a patio chair and Her on a blanket on the ground, as he combed out Her freshly-washed hair, shaking the waves out with his fingers first. Mostly as an excuse to get that noise She made whenever he rubbed Her scalp. His collar was warm and soft against his neck, where it belonged, the tooling of Her name on the inside gently nudging his throat. Her hair had gotten long on top over the last few months, and his big hands - not so clumsy anymore, at least for now - worked it into neat braids as She spoke, both of them slow and careful in everything they did. 

"I'd never been so scared in my life. It was probably seven years ago and I'll never forget. They caught him a block away with a broken nose and a sharpened screwdriver in his back pocket. I was still bleeding out in the lobby." She unconsciously rubbed Her scars again. "He'd just been going from place to place in the building, seeing if he could get in anywhere. Turns out my apartment had the shittiest lock. I told myself when I bought the house that I would never let it happen again. When I asked you to move in, I told it to myself about five more times." 

Roman paused in his ministrations to tease. "And You didn't think having a big-ass Samoan in the house was a good enough deterrent?"

She leaned back and bumped Her head against him, smiling up like a saint, radiating over him like a blessing. "Ain't your job. Protecting you is mine."

" _Yours_." Roman felt a shiver every time. "And You sure as hell have." He kissed Her forehead and went back to braiding. 

_'protecting you is Mine.' like i wouldn't throw myself between You and anything, **anything** , in a fraction of a heartbeat. as long as there was breath in my body._

The sun was setting, all oranges and purples, and it felt like Her skin absorbed heaven and bounced it right back at him, threatening to blow his heart right out of his chest with Her warmth. He finished his work and set everything aside as She turned between his legs and knelt up to kiss him. 

And then his phone rang. Roman rolled his eyes and reached to switch off the ringer.

"Take it. Chris will be worried." 

_how does she **do**  that? _

He picked up and hit speaker. "Hey Chris, how's things?" 

"Hey! I'm great, man. Got home, grilled some steaks, enjoying a little peace and quiet. How's the lady of the house?" Roman felt Her swell with pride at that. She liked Chris, and his penchant for melodramatic displays of affection. Something about toxic masculinity. Something about a good feeling. 

Roman smiled down at her. "She's doing a lot better, man. You wanna talk to Her?"

She was making grabby hands at the phone, and swiped it from him the minute Chris gave the affirmative, greeting him with only slightly subdued enthusiasm and letting Her drawl loose. " _Mr._ Jericho. Thank you so much for taking care of my boy."

Roman flushed a little at that, but Chris just laughed at the endearment and responded with exaggerated formality. "Anytime, ma'am. I'm just glad you're feeling better." They could practically  _hear_ his dramatic bow. "He's a keeper, but I think you already knew that."

She grinned. "I did indeed. Seriously, Chris, thank you for everything. Call us next time you get the meat out and we'll host. Beer's on me if you do the dry rub." 

"Goddess among women. You kids have a good night, okay?"

"Goodnight, Chris!" they both called into the phone before She hung up and Roman almost fell off the patio chair in a fit of giggles. 

"'Get the meat out'? He's gonna think we're a couple of perverts!" 

Her smirk never wavered as She got up, looking down at him through those big dark eyes. Then suddenly Her hand was twisted up in the loose leather of his collar and She was hauling him in for a kiss, muttering, "Well, he wouldn't be wrong. Now get your ass back inside before I have to deliver your birthday beatdown out here in front of god and the neighbors. And yes, I know it's not until midnight, but this is going to take a while." 

Roman felt himself grow dizzy as he stood, and the tiniest of stumbles made Her laugh and take his hand in one of Hers. 

Her other hand reached to the pocket of Her jeans, where She patted a small outline he hadn't even noticed was there. "And then, after that," She said, "You can get your real present." 

  
_the stars that wouldn't shine  
__don't mean you no harm_  
_they mean to help you,_  
_keep you safe + warm_  
_and if their loving fingers haven't found you yet_  
_i will remind you, lest you forget_


	5. broken record

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a proper new chapter coming soon, within the next week or two, but then this happened and I'm sorry
> 
> This was SUPPOSED to be a small drabble inspired by the current Raw storyline, which is hurting my heart and cutting VERY close to some things in my own life. And then it just kept going in one giant fucking stream-of-consciousness until I could rejoin society as a semi-coherent human being. 
> 
> Not for the Ambrollins folks, my apologies. Written on a lot of anxiety medication and badly proofread and it shows. 
> 
> Focused on a scene between Roman's Domme and Dean. (very generally negotiated, and nonsexual.) 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [soundtrack: the Bouncing Souls - How I Spent My Summer Vacation - "Broken Record"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=07c_4C74gnc)

Roman sat down on the back porch, closed his eyes, and tilted his head up to the sun, feeling warm leather brush his throat.

It was early August. He was home with his little family and his brother was on the phone.

Life was good. 

"So we'll see you tonight?" he smiled, running through the mental list of everything they'd need for dinner. 

There was a pause. It was a little longer than it felt like it should be. 

“Yeah, about that.”

Three words. Ambrose's raspy voice punching through the speaker loud and clear. 

Roman felt his guts drop and his breath stop and his heart catch in his throat. He knew, in both shock and resignation, exactly where this was going.  

_this is not happening. he's not doing this._

 

_....._

_he's fucking doing it._  

_bite it down. bite it down._

_bite it down **it hurts don't do it**_

_bite it down not your business bite it down_

_**fucking stop him** not your business bite it down_

 

He was glad Dean couldn't see he was baring his teeth as he struggled through the remainder of the conversation, struggled to pretend he bought the story, struggled to keep an even keel over the screaming of his instincts. He wasn't so sure he was doing a very good job. 

He finally hung up, and sat on the porch for a very, very long time. Long enough that the sun started to go down through the trees. Long enough that the wind kicked up and tugged on a few loose strands of hair. 

Roman expected himself to feel angry, but he didn’t. He expected to feel himself explode in a tornado of profanity and destruction, but he didn’t. He expected to need a goddamn beer, but he didn’t feel that either.

He didn’t fucking feel anything at all.

He didn’t even jump when She carefully knocked on the door, five times, like always, gently eased it open, and came outside. He didn’t even smile when he realized She was carrying a blanket, and wearing his sweatpants paired with her favorite baseball tee.

She shook the blanket out, draped it over his shoulders, and tugged it together in the front. That was when he finally realized he was cold – when She took the steps to make him warm again.

“Tell me what happened,” She said. And then She added, “Please.”

It wasn’t even the “Please” that did it. She said “Please” to him all the time; even when it was clearly an order, even when he was on his scraped-up knees crawling helplessly towards obedience. It was the way Her voice rasped over that one syllable instead of skating off it. It was the little spark of power she pushed behind it, the way it expanded and got caught in Her throat.

Roman braced his forearms on his thighs, interlaced his fingers almost hard enough to hurt, and gazed off ahead into the next street over. The lamps had started to flicker on. The kids next door were taking their bikes inside. Something smelled like burning leaves.

She sat down in front of him and crossed Her arms across his big knees. And She waited. As much as he struggled with patience sometimes, it seemed to be Her second nature – She knew when to ask, and when to linger.

Something finally broke his focus. Something finally said, _it’s time._ And when he flicked his eyes back down to Hers, he realized that She was already locked onto his face. Waiting.

“It’s Dean.” The two words dropped like lead from his lips.

“Is he okay?” She tilted Her head, trying to pin down the very specific expression that was currently wrecking his normally-open face.

“Yeah. Technically.” Two more words, a left-right combo to the gut. Roman finally took a deep breath, and on the exhale, let it fall out. “He’s running with Seth.”

She closed Her eyes and seemed to sink into the floorboards of the porch. “Why?”

Roman shook his head. “I don’t know. Some bullshit about tying up loose ends. Closure. Like it actually _works_ that way.”

“Does he believe it does?”

He shrugged. “He thinks he can keep a handle on it.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Iknow that. You know that.”

She tilted Her head again. “But you’re not angry.”

“No, Sir.”

“Then what are you, love?”

A long, shaky breath. Then another. Then a third.

Finally, he spoke. “Scared shitless. He’s not in a good place. He’s never in a good place. He’s fucking fragile. Hurting him would be too easy.”

She smiled, technically, but it was so bitter he could barely stand to look. “Hangs on with all he’s got even when they’re prying him open with a goddamn crowbar. Never met anybody in my life who wants to be loved that much. You know that better than anybody else. Except maybe Rollins.” 

She and Dean were kin in their own strange little way, despite their different paths; he was the one who drove Her to the hospital, after all. He was the one who called Her after Taker. 

It was one of the things that made Roman feel so safe in Her presence, although it took him a long time to pin down. She was familiar _and_ She understood. She knew what it was like to hurt and to bleed and to drag your way out by your teeth. It's just that the very things that made Dean soar amidst blood and chaos made Her crave stability and control and keeping both feet on the ground.

Funny how that turns out.

* * *

 _going to the same old places  
skippin like a broken record_  
_i love you all, but i gotta get out_  
_and change this scenery_

 _i’ve got to find what i’m living for_  
_i’ve got change this life that i’m living_

 _nowhere to run from myself_  
_nowhere to hide from the truth_

 

Much, much later that night, Her phone woke them both from sleep. She answered without looking, mumbling quietly, and by the time She hung up, She was already pulling on Her jeans and a sweatshirt. Roman tried to sit up in bed, but She pressed a hand to his chest and a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be back. Stay put.”

He propped himself up on his elbows, defiant in his exhaustion. “I can’t let You do this alone.”

In the dim light, Her face softened in sympathy even as Her voice grew sharp. “Roman Reigns, you will not disobey a direct order. You think I don’t _know?_ Why do you think he called me? He’s fucking ashamed. He’s not gonna fess to you when it’s not healthy or when it hurts, because he’d better hold the fuck on to what little he’s still got. You know I don’t like to pull hard rank on you like this, but you _will_ do what you’re told.”

She seemed to cut Herself off after that, drawing a sharp breath and rubbing a hand over Her face.  

After a long moment, he exhaled and rolled onto his side, awash in emotions from heartbreak to anger. “Yes, Sir.”

She kissed him, gently, and grabbed Her bag from the top of the dresser. Despite his best efforts, Roman dozed off shortly after hearing the creak of the front door.

He awoke with a start a few hours later to the sound of Her key in the lock, and bolted towards the top of the stairs.

There She was, stood up proud in all Her broad-shouldered glory.

But there was also, to his utter shock, Dean Ambrose. Head hung low, arm draped over Her shoulders, Her outside hand clasping his. 

He weaved a little - probably from exhaustion, since Roman didn't smell booze - and he was touching Her. That  _couldn't_ be good. 

_i mean it's not like there's Rules about it She just doesn't like being touched all that much by anyone unless they ask or She needs it from me or or or_

"Stay put," She ordered for the second time that day, before Roman could even think to take his first step forward. He froze in place in their doorway, and She eased them both up the stairs and nudged him towards the guest room. 

Roman wanted to follow them, but he felt rooted to the ground.  _She told you not to move._

It was dark. He couldn't tell if Dean was bleeding or crying. Or both. Or neither.  

Low voices. The creak of furniture. The  _thud_ as She kicked off Her boots and padded back out into the hallway, trailing a hand down his cheek. He reached up and took it, and as She flinched, he realized it was bruised. From what, god only knew. God and Her. 

"You've got to stop coming home all banged-up like this," he murmured into Her forehead. "People will talk." 

She shook Her head. "I'm gonna kill that weaselly little fucker. Like I should have in the first place." 

Roman responded the only way he knew: by crushing Her in his arms. She didn't get mad much, at least not in public for anyone to see; it was one skill She'd forced down Her own throat that made Her and Ambrose two roads diverged, or however the fuck that saying went. 

"Is he okay?" he asked into the shell of Her ear. 

"Physically, yeah. Emotionally, absolutely fucking not, but I'd bet whatever I've got that he'll lie to you if you ask him. He didn't tell me jack shit about what happened."

"So it was bad." He hugged Her even more fiercely. "What should I do, Sir?"

"Go sit with him. You know him better than I do, but if it were me, I wouldn't say much - no big questions. I'm gonna get him some ice; his face is all puffed-up from whatever he got into and I'm sure he's gonna have a hell of a headache in a few hours." 

"Yes, Sir." Roman released Her, and She slipped quietly back down the stairs while he took the few big steps down the hall to the guest room. "Uce? You home?" 

He meant it as a way to break the tension, but Dean just shook his head and tapped his temple. "Ain't nobody been home up here in a long time, and you fuckin' know it." 

The mattress shifted as Roman sat down next to his brother. "That ain't no way to be, Uce. Come on."

Dean bumped his shoulder, but kept his face covered with his hands. "'S what I fuckin' deserve. How the fuck don't I know better by now? How the fuck'm I so _stupid_ to think I wouldn't have to be that anymore? All stomped-on and beat down and bone-deep lonely anymore." His voice was shot to shit, barely audible. 

"You got backed into a corner. Not a terrible place to be when you got to start swinging - at least you're covered on three sides." 

The light shifted, and Roman realized She'd stepped into the doorway. She knelt in front of them, and pressed the wrapped bag of ice to the back of Dean's neck. He shuddered, and when She finally spoke, it was so low it barely broke the silence. 

"Hurts to high heaven to think there's finally gonna be a payoff, even a pity one, for all the blood you've swallowed and all the pieces you patched together. But it ain't your fault. While the rest of us are scrabbling just to live, people like  _that_ have all the time in the world to figure out how to play the game. Don't you talk about yourself like that, Ambrose. Don't you do it."

Dean exhaled, some cross between a cough and a rusty cackle. "What, you gonna punish me?"

 _oh shit_ , Roman thought. 

He did not expect Her to deadpan, "Only if you ask me nicely and everyone in this room agrees."

This time, Dean's laugh was genuine, if tinged with sarcasm. "Oh please, go on, son. Put me in my place." 

She raised an eyebrow at Roman, who considered the possibility before nodding. "Yes, Sir."

Dean snorted. "The fuck you gonna do? Beat my ass? Lock me in the closet? Ban me from the furniture?"

Then that  _smile_ crinkled the corner of Her lips, and Roman felt his chest go all big and warm as She stood. 

When Her mouth opened, pure sweet honey drawled out, and even though the order was not for him, Roman had to fight hard not to obey. 

"Get on the floor." 

Apparently, it was pretty damned hard for Dean, too, because to everyone's shock, he actually got up from the bed, and set the ice down on the pillow. He was crouched, ready to drop on creaky knees, when She wrinkled Her brow and stopped him with a hand. 

Dean tilted his head in confusion, but then She turned to the dresser and pulled a blanket out from the top drawer, and Roman swore he saw his brother's face open up like clouds before a rainstorm when he realized what was happening. 

She carefully folded the blanket and laid it down in front of him, then straightened Her back, nodding down to the thick layer of padding that now softened the wood floor. Ambrose sank down gratefully, squared his shoulders, and glanced back up when She spoke. 

"Roman, wait for me in the doorway." She spoke almost flippantly but he knew the heft of that disguised command. _Wait for me._

He knelt in one smooth motion, directly on the hardwood without complaint or consideration, and ran down his mental checklist. Back straight, eyes down, hands braced gently. She glanced back at him, and nodded Her approval. "Good boy."

He was suddenly glad no one could see his flush in the dim light. 

She turned back to Dean. "You think the only way to set you straight is to take it out of your hide. But you're wrong."

Dean tilted his head again, looking like a confused puppy in a way that almost made Roman laugh.

"Since I picked you up tonight, you've done nothing but talk shit on yourself. Not on the person who hurt you, not on the situation, not on anything else except your goddamned self. I don't allow that in my house."

"So what ya gonna do, then? Kick my ass until I admit I'm wrong?"

She brushed his wavy hair away from his forehead with one hand, fingertips barely brushing his skin. "Nah. I'm gonna stand here until you admit it of your own free will."

Dean pulled back, expecting... clearly not that.  

"I could beat you into next week and not only do I think it wouldn't help, I think you might like it," She drawled, and Dean bit his lip.  _Yup. Probably right on that one._ "But this ain't about punishment, not like that. This is about showing you that you  _deserve_ better. I'm going to stand here and watch you, and you're going to watch me right back, and while you do that, you're going to tell me three things you like about yourself. Three things you're good at. Three things that make you the beloved friend and brother most of this room is already well aware of." 

"Shit, that's all I gotta do?" Dean glanced over at Roman conspiratorially. Roman was trying very hard to keep his face impassive. 

"No jokes. No fuckin' around. And beating people up don't count."

"Well, damn." He smirked.

She said nothing. He stared her down. Five seconds passed. Then ten. Then thirty. 

She knew when to linger. And the longer She remained silent, the more the blood drained from Dean's face. Roman could all but  _hear_ the gears grinding as his brother started to grasp the extent of the task he'd been given.

Finally, Ambrose shook his head, and chuckled. "Are you sure you can't just kick my ass instead? Seems like a better fit." 

All She said was, "Not this time."

He dropped his eyes back to the ground, and She touched him again. The barest skim of Her fingers over his chin was enough to tilt him up, and the defiance on Dean's proud face was a beacon in the dark bedroom. "I can't do it, okay? You happy? I'm fuckin' broken. There's not a single good goddamn thing about me and that's why I end up in the shit every time. Everybody gets what they deserve in the end."

 _you fucking liar,_ Roman thought. He wanted to grab Dean, _hard,_ and shake him, bearhug him until his ribs hurt and he finally realized the truth. But She had told him to wait, and wait is exactly what he would do. 

She, in turn, said nothing. But every time Dean turned away, She touched him, and he instantly looked back. Roman found himself subconsciously counting. 

Three.

Four. 

Five. 

Then She spoke. "Tell me what you're thinking. Exactly what you're thinking. Don't rephrase."

As though he'd been dangling on the edge, waiting for the command, Dean spilled out, "Why do you do this to yourself? You're so fuckin' stupid. You know damned well that no one will ever pick you up when you fall. Not when it counts. Not when it matters. But the instant someone shows you a drop of chance, you cling to them like the fuckin' street dog you are. Starving, and this's the handful of scraps you've got left to slip through your damn fingers. You'll buy whatever they're selling, and they will absofuckinglutely always let you down." 

Five seconds passed. Then ten. 

Soft as it was, Her voice still made him jump a little. "Is that true?"

Dean bit his lip so hard, he was surprised  _not_ to feel blood trickling down his chin. When the pain-shine faded, he shook his head. "No. Wouldn't've called you if it was true. Wouldn't have  _him_  " -he jerked his head at Roman - "if it was true."

"Isn't that what you want?" There was a warm familiarity to Her tone, and Dean realized She was smiling. 

"Bein' wrong?" He chewed on his lip some more. "Fuckin' A, that's what I want. I want more than fuckin' anything to believe that some people are good, that some people don't hurt, that I can call some people in the middle of the damn night and they'll come save my ass. And I guess I'm right about one and a half of ya. Two, if you'll have me." 

She clasped Her forearms behind Her back, and Roman realized something in the room had changed, opened, warmed as Dean continued to talk. 

"So that's one, I guess. I _believe_ in people. As much as they can hurt me and as scary as it is, I believe in 'em when I think they deserve it." 

She touched his face with more intention this time. Six. He leaned into her palm, closing his eyes for a brief moment. 

"See, that ain't so bad, is it? So what's two, doll?"

Dean fairly  _grinned_ at that. "Ain't off the hook yet?"

"I'm a woman of my word, Mr. Ambrose." 

"Two." He sat back on his heels and licked his lips. "Two is that I work hard at whatever I'm aimed at. Harder'n anybody else I know. Pretty sure if I'd turned out to be a ditch digger instead of a fighter, I'd be the best goddamn ditch digger in the country because I'd never stop."

She smiled again. "And you're proud of that." It wasn't a question.

"Hell yes I am. Any shiny motherfucker with the right genes can be _good,_ but it takes a special kind of something to drive." 

Roman realized his knees hurt. He also realized he didn't care, as She patted Dean's cheek. Seven.

That time, Ambrose definitely started to wobble. He was tired, yes, but mostly shocked by how goddamn  _relaxed_ he felt. Wasn't this supposed to be punishment? It was like once he gnawed through the shit holding him back, saying nice things about himself actually became kinda fun. _Maybe I should get in trouble more often. This kind, anyway._

But then his piece of shit worthless fuckin' _brain_ kicked in again and reminded him of why he was here in the first place. 

_You fucked up. You fucked up. You got hurt, because you fucked up._

She saw the change in his eyes instantly, and dropped to Her own knees to look him dead in the face. He turned his head away, but She didn't touch him this time. She just waited again.

Dean was pretty sure She was the most patient fuckin' human being he'd ever met in his life, and he had no idea  _how._ Broke recognizes broke, that's why he liked Her so damned much in the first place when She first started coming around, but somehow She flipped the goddamn script. 

"How are you everything I'm not?" he mumbled, but She didn't respond.

At least not with Her voice. Ambrose hadn't the faintest fuckin' clue how it happened, but it was like something started ringing in his skull. And not in the usual way - not that screechy, bone-on-bone thing he felt in his memories and his molars. It was more like an earthquake, or the tolling of the biggest fuckin' church bell.

_Look at me. Look at **us.**  Look at us and let it go. Not your fault. Okay not to feel bad. Okay to let it go. Permission fucking granted. Now **look at me.**  _

Dean did what he was told, locking onto Roman's face first for a good long moment, and as soon as he turned and met Her eyes, a chill ran over his shoulders.  _How the hell...?_

Her face was blazing, not with anger, but with pure, unrestrained kindness. He was half-tempted to kiss Her, but not for the usual reasons. Not for any reasons he could clearly explain, at any rate. 

"I am," he said, barely aware that he was speaking at all. "I am everything I think I can't. I'm better than this. I deserve better." 

It was like all the energy in the room just snapped in half at the declaration, drained out like a cracked egg, and he gave into the temptation to collapse on Her shoulder. She huffed out a breath at the dead weight, but Roman could tell even from Her back that She was smiling. 

Eight. 

"Roman, please make yourself useful," She called softly, and he scrambled to his feet, almost slamming into the dresser as the blood started fully circulating again. He wrapped his arms around them both, and braced as She guided Dean onto the mattress. He eventually sat up of his own volition, sort of, scrubbing his face with his hands, feeling thoroughly confused and  _extremely_ sleepy, all wrapped-up and warm like a Christmas present. 

"Reigns, is your woman a fuckin' wizard or something?" he slurred, and Roman glanced over at Her with a smile.

"Wouldn't surprise me one bit," he rumbled, arranging everything and tucking his brother into bed. At a glance, he stepped back, and She leaned down to peck both of Dean's cheeks.

Nine. Ten. 

Then She laced Her fingers through Roman's, and he kissed the top of Her head before flicking his eyes towards the door. 

Dean was already snoring by the time he led Her through. He half wanted to go back out to the porch and watch the sunrise, but he knew She was exhausted, and just in case, it couldn't hurt to be right down the hall. 

Just in case. 

Just in case. 

 

 _nowhere to run from myself_  
_nowhere to hide from the truth_

 _i tried to find someplace that seemed right for me_  
_i walked the streets until i lost my mind_  
_and that was the best place to be_  
_when i lost my mind, the truth set me free_

 _set me free_  
_set me free_  
_set me free_


	6. come on hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (true story: in the very first chapter of this story, i picked a completely random length of time that they've been together based purely on the fact that i have literal OCD and love odd numbers. since then, i've done the math, and yesterday [8/23/2013] was their anniversary! this was, as you can guess, supposed to be published on the day of, but life happened. originally i was gonna write a chapter that was the story of the day they met for this date; you'll still get that meet-cute warm-fuzzy business, just not quite yet! <3)
> 
> high protocol D/s, rope (including a bit of suspension), service, and some pain play. also hammock sex, but ya know. it's a long one. 
> 
> happy anniversary, you two crazy kids! have a nice vacation without any summerslam bullshit whatsoever! 
> 
>  
> 
> [soundtrack: the gin blossoms - major lodge victory - "come on hard"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBJwg0KMFHY)

_can we take this hell that we've sown_  
_i figured all this time by now we've grown_  
_can you wake up sudden feeling pleased_  
_and walking all this time while down on your knees_

* * *

 

**_Bzz. Bzz._ **

**_DA:_** _I’m so sorry, man. I can’t believe Lesnar put you through that bullshit just to feed his fuckin ego. At least it looked like you had some fun tonight._

 Roman rubbed a tired, bruised hand across the lower half of his face and tossed his phone back into his bag before stepping into the hotel shower.

Not replying. Definitely not replying.

_I’m the one who took the pin, yeah, because I’m the only asshole who was still in the fucking match. Kentucky-Fried Shitshow is apparently allergic to furniture, and I can’t believe Joe didn’t get his neck snapped with those sloppy fucking suplexes. He’s a tough little fucker. Maybe we should stick together – I’ll take the bumps and he can keep taking out knees._

_Like the boss would ever let two unrelated Samoans be on the same side. Shit, I barely even see my cousins anymore._

Roman rinsed the shampoo out of his hair, and went for the conditioner. He knew he was being sulky, but, hell, now was as good at time as any to indulge. Bad enough that they lost. Worse that he was the one everyone wanted to blame for the continuing presence of a guy whose face looked like a smug goddamn ham sandwich.

Worse yet, the few people who made him feel slightly less shitty were nowhere to be found. That message from Dean was as close as it got – Corey had passed along the rumor that the powers that be had banned Ambrose from actually speaking directly to him, because god forbid anyone saw them together. God forbid the fans – excuse him, the Universe – be reminded that two noisy white boys alone do not a Shield reunion make. (God forbid anyone actually address the question of whether such a thing would even be a good idea in the first place.) They’d cut his damn face out of the promos, for fuck’s sake. At least Graves had slipped it in here and there, passed off as his usual provocateur bullshit. Dude might be a bit of a creep, but he came through in the clutch sometimes.

Politics and ratings keeping him from his brother. His brother, the _winner._ Couldn’t have his shine dimmed or his moment spoiled by being potentially seen with a fucking loser like Roman, no _sir._  

Fuck. Everything hurt. The water needled at all the leftover scrapes and bruises, kept him from hazing out into that safe place he went when his body felt too heavy to hold itself up.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. None of it was supposed to be like this. And now he had a very long plane ride ahead of him very early in the morning to get where he was going, and with nothing to show for it.

He’d just finished toweling off and slid into bed when he heard the phone buzzing from his bag. _Goddammit, Dean, you’re not helping._ Roman grumbled his way across the room and yanked the device from the side pocket, swiping without actually checking the caller ID as he paced.

“You’re not supposed to be talking to me. You wanna get fired, uce? Both of us can’t be losers.”

There was a momentary pause, and then a voice filled his ear that actually made him fall back on the bed and close his eyes. 

“Well, I don’t know who told you _that,_ but I’m pretty sure I can talk to whoever I damned well please, young man.” Her drawl was rich and homey, and She sounded faintly amused.

“Oh – oh shit. I mean. Sorry, Sir. I thought you were – I should have – “

“Stop,” She murmured, and he obeyed instantly, grateful for the opportunity to not explain himself. “I just wanted to see how your night went. And watch your language.”

Roman’s stomach dropped. “I’m so sorry, Sir. You - you didn’t see?”

“I didn’t. I’m sorry, Roman. I was hoping to get out of these last few panels on time, but with the time difference, I just missed it.” She was at a conference on the west coast, arguing about policy and white papers. He was supposed to join Her there tomorrow; She’d been planning some sort of big trip for them. Post-SummerSlam celebration. “I got the notifications. It sounded ugly.”

Yeah. Roman was pretty sure there wasn’t much to celebrate. “Ugly sounds about right.”

“You alright, my boy?” Her voice was still warm, but crisp like autumn. Businesslike. If there was a problem, She was going to solve it, of that Roman was quite certain.

But something about that voice – solid, matter-of-fact, _stable,_ authoritative, delivered with concern but without judgment, just tipped him over the edge, and he felt his voice crack a little as he tried to respond. He stumbled over his words for a few moments before She picked up the thread again. “You in bed yet?”

Roman tilted his head back and looked up at the pillows before sliding up and rearranging himself under the sheets for the second time. “Yes, Sir.”

“All tucked in?” He could _hear_ the smile in her voice and couldn’t help a weak one of his own.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then take a deep breath, and tell me all about it. I want to hear it from you above any other source. And before you say a word, what else am I going to tell you?”

“Hmm?” Roman’s eyelids felt suddenly heavy, and he turned to wrap the blankets around him more closely, pinning the phone between the pillow and his ear.

“What do you know is true, before anything else?”

He smiled. He knew this one. His chest ached to say it, but dozens, maybe hundreds of repetitions had practically tattooed it on the inside of his eyelids. “Mmph. That You love me, Sir.”

“That I do. And what else?”

A complex web of emotions snagged him and rolled him up, and Roman found himself smiling even as he fought back another crack in his voice. “That You’re proud of me, Sir.”

“That’s my boy. Now go on. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

* * *

 

Roman wouldn’t say he was exactly _chipper_ after the several-hour flight, but it beat the hell out of the night before. Especially when he saw Her standing next to the rental car, smiling like a saint; it took everything he had in him not to break into a sprint, and even after all these years, the gentle kiss She gave him made his heart race. She held his stubbled face and it felt like there was no way even Her hands could possibly contain the breadth of his smile.

He put his bag in the backseat, bumped up next to Hers, and went around to the driver’s side, but She stopped him. “Not a chance, young man. You must be exhausted.”

He briefly considered putting up a fight, but there wasn’t much of one left in him anyway. “Yessir. You’re the one who knows where we’re going, after all.”

She patted his hand and turned up the stereo. “Put your seatbelt on.”

A couple of hours later, they were fairly off the beaten path, pulling up to a neat little cabin that was barely visible amidst the trees. It looked like serenity personified, right down to the big cloth hammock hung out front and the double rocking chair on the wraparound porch. They hadn’t seen another house, or another car, for several miles. She’d reached over and teasingly tugged his bun loose, resting her hand on the nape of his neck, and the cool air from the open windows felt wonderful through his increasingly disheveled hair.

Roman felt his shoulders drop a solid inch as they got out of the car, and he let a big smile cross his face. _She always knows exactly what I need. Just peace and quiet and Her._

She unlocked the front door, explaining that it belonged to an old friend from Her first big-city Leather bar scene, who lent it out to folks who needed a getaway. Roman made a mental note to send them a card, or some flowers, or something.

“I’ve never actually been out here before, only seen pictures, but it’s even prettier than they made it sound! Let’s take a look around, and then we can talk.”

Roman looked up at the rafters of the cabin, taking in the sights, when he spotted something he hadn’t laid eyes on in a _very_ long time: a heavy and strategically placed set of eyebolts in the corners of the ceiling, and a familiar-looking ring in the center. _Wait a second…_ The gears began to turn, and he took their bags through the open bedroom door, laying everything out neatly on the big four-poster before realizing the room next to it was closed.

“Sir?” He tilted his head, and She grinned and gestured. “Go ahead. It’s mostly a surprise to me, too.”

He couldn’t contain his gasp when the door creaked open. Directly across was the most beautiful and absolutely enormous St. Andrews he’d ever seen, clearly handmade and polished within an inch of its life. And that wasn’t all; there was a leather-covered bench that appeared to double as storage, and a padded table, and a very solid-looking frame stand, and even a matte steel cage, all impeccably organized around the room with plenty of space for movement. There were also a few cabinets mounted along the far walls, heavy dark wood with mirrored doors. The floors were covered in soft, thick rugs, and as he crossed the room, Roman couldn’t help but run his fingers down the heavy, velvety curtains that were currently letting in shafts of sunlight. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth on his face, leaning back when he felt Her arms around his waist and Her mouth on his shoulderblade.

_i don’t deserve all this. but i have it anyway._

He turned and dropped to his knees, wrapping Her tightly in his arms, and the plushness of the carpet underneath made him want to be naked, immediately. This was heaven. This was _glorious._ He pressed his face to Her torso, rumbling his thanks from deep in his chest, and She positively purred.

Roman could smell Her arousal as She tipped his chin up until their eyes met. “Let’s get changed. I want to test out that hammock, first and foremost.”

“Yes, Sir!”

A few minutes later, they’d padded out front and wrapped up together, swaying gently in the shade of the trees, surrounded on almost all sides by soft fabric and each other’s warmth. She tucked his hair behind his ear and kissed his forehead, and he nuzzled Her ear and loved the way She shivered as he asked about her conference and talked about his boring flight.

“How are you feeling, boy?”

The question surprised him, but his answer surprised him more. “Couldn’t be happier, Sir. Everything feels a million miles away.”

Her face was serious. “Good. Can’t have you sulking come tomorrow, after all.”

His hand tightened on Her hip as he suddenly _remembered,_ hauled from the back burner through the fog of stress and training and sleepless nights.

Roman looked up in horror only to find the faintest smirk on Her face. “I’m not going to ask if you forgot our anniversary,” She said, “because I know you didn’t. I just also know there’s been an awful lot on your mind lately, and if it’s okay with you, I’m going to make sure all of that business fucks right off for the next several days.”

He kissed Her so dramatically that She couldn’t stop giggling, but they were both reduced to deep breaths and noises when She threw Her leg over his hip and began grinding into him. He was already hard, almost embarrassingly so, and when She hooked Her leg and squeezed him between Her thighs, he groaned softly into Her neck. That just made Her pull him closer, so he did it again, and before he knew it, Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck and pulled their mouths together.

“This is what I need right now,” She murmured, barely breaking the kiss. “You’re so close to me, you feel so fucking _good._ Show me how much you missed me.”

Roman’s big hands felt clumsy and slow as he tugged their clothes aside, hauling their shorts down to the bottom of the hammock and pulling their shirts up as high as he could, but when the hot skin of Her bare torso met his, suddenly none of that mattered one bit. The head of his cock brushed against Her and She shivered at the sensation before canting Her hips _just_ right to allow him in. The complications of positioning in the hammock kept him on his side, gently rocking into Her, which was a blessing because he wasn’t sure he could take much more. It all kept Her skin close to his, and he licked and kissed and bit and caressed every inch of Her that he could reach, reveling in the way Her curls brushed his face, jolting when She reached between their bodies to stroke at Her clit.

“You like that, don’t you, sugar?” She drawled. “You like it when I take control of my own pleasure, when I use you to get myself off. When you know exactly what I like and what I need, when you see it and feel it for yourself.”

Roman swore into Her mouth and She playfully tapped his cheek, then let out a curse of Her own as he tightened his grip around Her waist and fucked Her as deeply as he could.

Stars behind his eyes, he only vaguely remembered falling asleep beside Her, their exhausted bodies sticky and warm, his mouth pressed softly to Her dark hair. Eventually he managed to finagle scooping Her up and carrying Her inside to the shower, which, as it turned out, included an absolutely stunning reclaimed clawfoot tub that he suspected he’d be getting to know very intimately indeed over the next few days. Even if it was only on his knees to the side. He was so tired it was hard to move at all, and She let him sleep while She made a late dinner, teasing that this would be his last chance to laze around as a free man for the rest of their trip.

 _staring at the starlight_  
_i can smell those brackish waters_  
_i swear i've had this feeling here before_  
_come on hard at night i pine for you and no other_  
_i promise i won't hurt you anymore_

* * *

 

Roman woke up early the next morning, cleaned himself up, pulled on some sweatpants, and went to work while She slept. He made coffee, started on breakfast, and unpacked their bags, eyes widening at the contents. They’d discussed it a little bit before collapsing into jetlag and exhaustion, but either way, this was clearly the place and time for something they’d been missing for a long while – the simple, focused version of one of those fancy resorts he’d read about in some of Her books. Things they didn’t always get at home simply because life got there first. But he was Hers now. As he’d always been, but this time without interruptions.

She got up just in time, as the French toast was coming off the stove, and when She sat at the kitchen table and sipped Her coffee in blissful silence, Roman gave into instinct and sat at Her feet, leaned against Her warm, brown legs while he chewed on his own bacon. She reached down and ran Her fingers through his hair, and laughed when he all but collapsed at the sensation. 

When they’d both finished, he stood up and took Her dishes, and She went to make the bed as he washed up and put everything away. She finished first, and leaned against the doorway. It wasn’t like She hadn’t seen him in almost every conceivable state by this point, but even after all the years, Her gaze on his shirtless body still made him blush.

The instant the last dish was put away and the kitchen towel folded, She drawled, “You’re wearing too many clothes. Take ‘em off.”

Roman grinned. “Yes, Sir.” He hooked the waistband of his sweatpants and stripped, doing his best to look smooth and effortless as he folded them and put them away in the bedroom before returning.

She crooked a finger at him, and he came to Her instantly, waiting for Her next command. But to his surprise, She dropped to Her knees first, cupping one of his calves in Her hands, and it took him what felt like an embarrassingly long moment to realize She’d skipped Her usual inspection last night. She stroked and prodded and examined, somehow managing an effortless dance between intimacy and cool detachment, checking him for sore spots, cuts, welts, and anything else that might keep Her from enjoying Her favorite toy. It made him feel like _something_ – a possession, one with a history, one that could come with flaws that could lower his value as an object. It turned his face red and his dick hard.

She finished with Her hands in his hair, and decided that would be a convenient point at which the next stage could begin, as Roman discovered when She gleefully yanked him to his knees. She left the room, briefly, and came back with several coils of soft, well-loved silk rope, hand-dyed a gorgeous shade of navy, one of the many surprises he’d found in Her bag this morning. Still feeling some thudding and bruises from the rough few days before, Roman thought a quiet thanks that She’d avoided the jute, and then realized it was almost certainly deliberate.

He really, _really_ loved this woman.

And as She ran the first coil of rope between her fingers, looking for the bight, he told Her so, and when She nudged his wrists behind his back and looped the rope around them both a few more times than usual, distributing the pressure to avoid any aches, he told Her again. She split the ends and wound them both from the center out, creating a sort of spreader bar that kept his hands immobilized, but still about eight inches from each other. He knew that She knew he was flexible enough to handle more, but he also knew that if that’s what She wanted, She would have done it.

When She finished tucking the ends neatly inside, She bent down and kissed all over his wrists and fingers. Step one. Step two was repeating the process in several other places, namely his ankles and thighs a few inches above the knee, and upper arms above the elbow. This, Roman realized, was why that space was created – he could do a lot of things, but touching his elbows behind his back sure as shit was never going to be one of them.

Roman realized his heart and brain were driven to near-madness by the pace, which was somehow both fastidious and leisurely. Every minute or two, She slipped Her fingers in the spaces between, checking for burn or pressure points or poor circulation. Once or twice, She took the wraps in Her hands and twisted them in opposite directions, making tiny adjustments here and there to ensure they were perfectly, meticulously tight.

When She finished, and went into the room for what was likely to be more, Roman reveled in the sensation of testing his bonds – not to escape, no Sir, not ever, but simply to close his eyes and feel out all the tiny details. The extra wraps that made it feel almost decadent. The careful placement of each loop and closing knot far away from any joints or pulse points. The shift of the silk and the weave catching his body heat felt warm and comforting, like being wrapped in Her tight embrace.

_She thinks of everything. She always does. we’d be here all day if that’s what it took for everything to be right. and that’s why you do this, isn’t it? because you know by now not to doubt Her. because this is the only time in your life you get that freedom. She is your rainy day. She is when you sit by the window and don’t think about anything else. She is your mindfulness. She is your home **and** your escape. _

The next coil was doubled up and draped slowly around the back of his neck as She pulled him down for a lingering kiss, and he shuddered with delicious glee as he felt his brain start to wind down with the ropes. He knew these ties were Her favorite, quick and practical and still precise, but to have them applied under these circumstances and with this particular rope meant enormous enjoyment for them both on so many levels. She kept kissing him, tenderly but in a way that would have buckled his knees under Her authority even if he weren’t tied, as she tucked the doubled strands under his arms and crossed them at the small of his back. She broke the kiss and dropped to kneel as the ropes crossed front again, and She carefully quadruple-checked for rolls and twists before shifting his cock up out of the way and drawing the soft fibers between his legs, circling around him still on Her knees to tug them back up and knot off on both sides, just below and then above the x She’d previously created. In the process, She gently took up the slack and used the remaining ends to attach the harness to the wraps on his arms, and Roman gasped hard at the finality of those movements, cocooned and helpless.

She hadn’t said much during the process, preferring to communicate in breaths and kisses and nips and small touches that told him which way to turn, but when this part was complete, She stepped back and laid a hand on his face. “You look so beautiful,” She said, raking Her nails down his chest and laughing when he whimpered. “Now get on your fucking knees.”

She tucked Her hands under his arms to help him keep his balance, and he thought for the thousandth time how strong She was as he tried to stumble forward gracefully and She laid him out on the floor. A tug at the back of the harness, its direction spread wide across the seemingly dozens of wraps, made his eyes snap open, and a second one quickly brought his ankles to the backs of his thighs. Roman couldn’t see what was happening above him, but he felt a few more gentle upwards movements, and heard the _ping_ of rope on metal several times over. She stood near his head, and instinctively, he turned his face and kissed Her ankle. She ran gentle fingers down his body, and slapped his ass, hard. He groaned into the rug, and then realized he was moving, one section at a time. 

_holy shit. She’s doing it. we’ve talked about it so many times and i’ve dreamed about it so many times and She’s fucking doing it. i can’t believe this is happening. breathe. breathe._

The tying had been luxuriously slow, but the suspension itself was quick and methodical, with the tiniest shifts here and there until he was perfectly balanced above the ground. She’d clearly been planning this as long as he’d been dreaming about it, and before he had time to grasp the possibilities, Roman was flying, high on endorphins and feeling as though his heart might burst from his chest. She carded through his hair and told him to close his eyes, to take it in, walking the fingers of Her other hand over each and every strand of sensation and the way they all wound around and centered to take him to someplace he could only describe as _home._

Roman’s eyes rolled back behind his closed eyelids as he sank even further into his bonds. He thought faintly that this should have left him helpless, frighteningly exposed, and vulnerable, but as it turned out, only the last of those things was true. Every exhale only served to relax him further into what he was starting to picture as the long-limbed, sleek extension of Her embrace, and even as the wide bands of rope pressed into his bruises, the pain was what he could only think to describe as delicious. Meanwhile, Her hands and mouth were all over him – touching, teasing, reassuring – and he couldn’t come up with a single other thing in the whole world that existed beyond the bubble in which he was carefully and thoroughly enclosed.

Periodically, She’d place Her hand on the back of his head, and wait again. He’d nod once, maybe twice, and She’d pat him and continue. It was their unspoken signal for the times he was too out of it to speak, or wasn’t permitted. She didn’t take him any further than that, didn’t hurt him or use him sexually. She just… waited, letting every series of gentle touches sink him further and further into that place where words stopped working and the entire universe consisted of nothing more than sweeping waves of Her warm, cautious tenderness.

Roman found himself sinking, as though he’d been dropped facefirst from the ceiling through the floor, through the foundation, through the dirt, somewhere deep in the earth. His body shivered all over, he realized as his hair trembled around his face. A handful of tears gathered in his eyes, and gravity had their way with them and spattered them on the ground. Instantly, She was beneath him, touching their foreheads together, and as he continued to cry, dropping tears on Her shorts, She reached for the back of his head again. He tried to nod, tried to tell her something –

_i don’t know what it is i don’t know i’m fine i’m fine i think i’m ?probably? ?fine? but my head won’t work and my throat is stuck and why why why am i crying_

– but his whole body felt greyed-out and lost someplace far away. In an instant, She kissed him fondly, and simply whispered, “Thank you,” before rolling out from under him and beginning to bring him back down to earth.

His unraveling happened much more quickly, and on so many levels. By the time his limbs were freed, Roman was sobbing in earnest, but he couldn’t have spoken a single coherent sentence as to the reason. She tried to move him off the floor, but his legs and arms were shaking, and so She just pulled a blanket off the couch on top of them and tucked his head onto Her chest. Her warm voice washed over him, and while he couldn’t quite make out the words just yet, the tone and the power behind them made him feel soothed and safe and very, very brave.

“How long was I up there?” he finally croaked, and She kissed his forehead.

“About fifteen minutes. More than enough for a first time. I’m so proud of you, sweet boy.”

He just closed his eyes and sighed into Her as She kept up the praise. “You made me so happy. You took what you needed, and what I needed, and you told me when it was enough. I couldn’t have possibly asked for more than what you gave.”

“Thank you, Sir,” he mumbled into Her torso. After a few minutes, he’d recovered sufficiently to sit up, and She brought him a glass of water and stroked his hair until he finished it. When he was back on his feet, feeling like a bright new man, he saw the tiniest slump in Her shoulders, and then it was his turn to hold Her, tired and sore as She was from several different concentrations of heavy lifting. She was clearly exhausted, and Roman drew Her a bath and gently washed Her hair before tucking Her away for a nap. He methodically coiled the ropes and stacked them, admiring the quickly-fading marks across his arms and legs and chest, then thought long and hard about joining Her in bed. But something was nagging at the corner of his mind, some itch he couldn’t quite scratch, and so instead he sat on the couch, deep in thought, until finally it molded into something he clearly recognized.

The instant it all came into focus, he dropped off the couch onto the living room floor, and began to think about dinner. She’d brought plenty of groceries, and now seemed like a good a time as any.

* * *

 

 _poor us, frail as they come_  
_and thinkin all this time i'm right and i'm not_  
_i cannot help myself and i know it's not your fault_  
_well i was certain then, but now i don't know_

When he finished plating – an incredibly tender skirt steak and vegetables – and heard Her get out of bed, Roman instantly dropped to his knees in the middle of the living room, gaze focused – but not too intensely – on the edge of the rug. He clasped his forearms behind his back, instead of placing them on his thighs, and willed every molecule of his body to stay perfectly, impeccably, impossibly still, not even allowing his breath to change as She came through the doorway.

“Cookie protocol, huh?” She asked, using the private name they’d adapted from a silly youtube video back when he was first trying to figure all this stuff out. It wasn’t like he had a manual, but some things came together a particular way. Very Formal Rules, capitalized appropriately, was for parties, and cookie protocol was the slightly simpler version for when no one was looking. As an added challenge, it was very difficult not to at least smile at the name, and he knew She was watching his face like a hawk. “I was hoping you’d say that. Thank you.”

“Yes, Sir. You’re welcome, Sir.”

The smell of food perked Her head up, and She snagged Her plate and a fork before beginning to circle him like a shark. Roman could picture Her, barefoot, in a tank top and boxers, and still more beautiful and more terrifying than anyone he’d ever imagined could walk into his life. He’d never wanted anything more than to look at Her, but he’d volunteered, and that was now against the rules.

She finished chewing, and said from somewhere behind him, “Have you eaten?”

She knew he hadn’t. Cookies meant he didn’t eat before Her.

“No, Sir.” His voice got caught in his throat and didn’t come out as crisp as he would have liked, and he felt the frustration build at the small imperfection. He managed to take a deep, gradual breath and let it out without huffing or sighing.

“Is that upsetting to you?”

“No, Sir.”

She sat on the couch and crossed Her legs. “Come sit with me.”

“Yes, Sir.” He all but crawled to Her side, and she rewarded him with a piece of the meat. Roman tried very hard not to show how much he enjoyed licking it off Her fingers, but failed miserably. Luckily, it only made Her laugh. She finished Her meal, as well as dessert – a slice of one of Her impeccable pecan pies – and fed him plenty of scraps along the way. It was _so hard_ to focus on his best behavior when She was so close and so tender, but he thought he’d done reasonably well for himself until She got up without warning and strode into the previously-discovered _playroom? dungeon? what does one even call such a place?_

For an instant, he almost followed, but snapped himself back. _not unless She tells you to follow. you are one step up from furniture, and you asked for this._

She returned a few moments later, holding what looked, from the corner of Roman’s eye, to be a _nasty_ dragon’s tail made of gorgeous oxblood leather. He was so fixated on the whip that it wasn’t until She took another step closer that he recognized the sound coming from something hanging over Her waistband – that hinged, shiny metal he knew so well.

“Sit up and be collared, boy,” She ordered, in that _voice_ that only came out in the dark and begged – no, _demanded_ to be obeyed.

“Yes, Sir.” Roman knelt up straight, hands clasped behind him again, and looked up to a corner of the ceiling. He hadn’t made eye contact with Her once, and he would not unless given the order, but baring his throat was part of the ritual. She finger-combed his long hair out of the way and slipped the collar around, and Roman heard a lock _click_ audibly into place. He shivered and fought the urge to look down with everything he had left in him, realizing suddenly that it was what She wanted.

 _She could have keyed it shut in silence, but She didn’t._  

_be perfect for Her. She doesn’t demand it, but it’s what She deserves._

Once She straightened back up, She simply said, “Follow me,” and turned on Her heel back to the room.  Out of habit, Roman almost stood up, but caught himself at the last second and began to crawl. His slow pace brought him there a few moments later than Her, and when She tapped the handle of the whip on the St. Andrews, he stood then, and lined up without any hesitation. She didn’t tie him down this time. She didn’t have to. She knew as well as he did that right now, he didn’t need it.

“How long have I loved you?” She asked, testing the heft of the whip in Her hand.

Roman knew the answer this time, and immediately. “Forty-eight months.” He paused. “One thousand, four hundred, and sixty-one days. Sir.”

He couldn’t see Her face, but he could hear the smile on it. “I think you’d rather have forty-eight, am I correct?”

Roman swallowed. “Whatever You think is best, Sir.” That was the correct answer, even if it wasn’t entirely – well, okay. Perhaps it was true.

_She’s never given me more than i can take. even when it’s more than i **think** i can take. if she wanted to give me that many, i would bleed for Her. i already do every time the sun rises. _

In the end, though, he was grateful for forty-eight, because they were on Her time now and no one else’s, and that meant every last one of them was going to do the work. She was not a believer in waste.

Roman wanted nothing more than to relax into the pain and let it carry him away, but there was one catch: this time, he had to stay alert enough to count every single one. Around number nine or ten, She’d layered up the base of strikes that set his back and ass aflame. After that, She let the weight of the whip do the talking, precision hits that nearly took the breath from his body.

By twenty, when She turned him and dipped his head back into the space provided by the x of the cross, Roman felt his first tear begin to form. The strikes across his chest were hard and reverberating, like an earthquake that threatened to tear his heart out. His upper legs bore the brunt of thirty through forty, and just as he’d become nearly accustomed to the sting of his abraided back against the lacquered wood, She turned him around again, delivering the final eight to the sensitive, fragile skin of the backs of his thighs.

That was the turning point. She rarely hit him there, because She knew it was agonizing, and having to focus enough to keep count only made it worse. When he finally sobbed out, “Forty-eight, thank you, Sir,” She was behind him in an instant, hooking his arms as he slumped to his knees. To his horror, he involuntarily kept following the script and asked for another, but She just laughed and told him he hadn’t earned it yet.

“You’re the best boy,” She crooned into his ear. “Took it all for me, didn’t lose count even once. You’re so brave.”

Featherlight kisses and touches brushed every wound on his battered body, and She kept Her promise to return in seconds with a warm, damp towel that took some of the sting away. They stayed there on the floor for a very long time, and then he realized She was getting up and retreating to the living room.

_oh no. oh no. i have to do this. i can’t do this._

_She thinks you can._

And that was all he needed. Roman got to his sore knees and crawled, very, very carefully, across the room, through the door, and onto the living room rug, eyes focused six inches in front of him and framed by long strands of dark hair. It felt like a month later, but he finally reached Her feet where She stood, and when he did, She sat in front of him on the couch, fingers laced through his collar. He still didn’t look at Her. He didn’t need to, anyway; he could have picked Her out of a room full of legs just by Her smell.

Which suddenly began to intensify, as She kicked Her shorts off and away and dragged him between Her legs.

“I love You,” he murmured into Her dripping cunt, pressing small kisses all over.

She pulled him back by the hair, and locked eyes with him for the first time since all this began. He couldn't help his gasp at the intensity in Her eyes, all that focus and strength and _power_ concentrated behind them feeling like it might cut him in half. He immediately glanced away as She slapped his face, and not gently. “I did _not_  tell you to talk.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again, Sir.”

But once again, he heard the smile in Her voice, and replied with one of his own when She shoved him back where he belonged. “I love you, too. Now make me happier than you already have today.”

 **_that_ ** _i am pretty sure i can do._

“Yes, Sir.”

It wasn’t until many hours later, out of protocol and tucked safely back into bed, that Roman realized he’d forgotten all about work. About the bruises, about the pain in his heart, about the way he wanted to flinch every time he walked out into the world. That, he thought, might be the best gift She could have possibly given him.  

“Happy anniversary, Sir. I missed You,” he mumbled into Her hair, and she laughed.

“Happy anniversary, Roman.”

 _staring at the starlight_  
_i can smell those brackish waters_  
_i swear i've had this feeling here before_  
_come on hard at night_  
_i cry for you and all the others_  
_i promise i won't hurt them anymore_


End file.
